


City of The Dead

by jonnyluvssherlock



Series: Film/Book Crossover [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 1920's AU, Action/Adventure, Angst, BAMF John Watson, Comedy, Drunk Mycroft, Forced Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Minor Character Deaths, PLAGUES, PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Romance, anck-su-namum is a guy, anderson is beni, eventual lovers, i made imhotep gay, john is o'connell, mummys, non sherlock character deaths, once they figure out friends, set in egypt, sherlock is a librarian, sherlock is eve, talking about war, the mummy - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-11 17:32:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2076897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonnyluvssherlock/pseuds/jonnyluvssherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's sick of doing basic work at the Cairo Museum of Antiques but until the Bembridge Scholars stop rejecting his work he's stuck.  That is until Mycroft brings him a puzzle box with a map to the City of The Dead.  With the Help of former Foreign Legionnaires officer John Watson the three of them will face the desert and Sherlock will find out some secrets should stayed buried.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is a crossover with the film The Mummy. i will be using direct quotes, indirect quotes, and really just following the movie closely. there will be some changes. things missing, things added. this fic will be from the POV of either Sherlock or John so we won't see anything they couldn't see.
> 
> this is a johnlock fic there is mild smut in the epilog. if you want to you can stop at the end of chapter 4. that is the end of the movie. part 5 is my own invention. Mycroft might seem a bit OOC. he's taking over the role of Jonathan (if you have seen the film you know what that means). 
> 
>  
> 
> Note: Please do not redistribute my fanfiction on other archives or sites such as goodreads or ebooks tree without my express permission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the first fic I ever took the time to start writing down instead of just going though it in my head. I published it about a year ago and went to re-read it a couple of weeks ago and found multiple mistakes. I sent it to my beta and she helped re-edit it. When I first posted it I have very long chapters but I re-worked it so it's going to only be 5 longer chapters. The full story is still here!!

Prologue

 

Thebes- 2,134 B.C.

 

Thebes, known as the City of the Living, was the crown jewel of Pharaoh Seti the First. Legend tells of a High Priest named Imhotep, who was the lover of the Pharaoh’s male consort, Anck-Su-Namun, who the Pharaoh treasured above all else, allowing no one but himself to touch. Imhotep and Anck-Su-Namun killed the Pharaoh to be together, but they were caught. Anck-Su-Namun killed himself so his love, Imhotep, could bring him back to life, but the priest was caught before he could complete the ritual. As punishment for his crimes, Imhotep was forced to endure the HOM-DAI – the worst of all ancient curses. If Imhotep were ever to wake from it, he would bring with him a walking disease, a plague upon humanity, an unholy flesh-eater with the strength of ages, power over the sands, and the glory of invincibility. 

 

The Book of the Living contained sacred incantations that would send evil dead on a journey into the dark underworld. However, there was another book, the Book of the Dead, which was never to be opened and never to be read, for it contained the incantations that could bring a dead body back to life, but as a most unholy thing.

 

Part One

Cairo, Egypt 1928

 

Deep in the Cairo Museum of Antiques, Sherlock balanced precariously on a wooden ladder leaning against a bookshelf. His black, curly hair stuck out in odd places and his blue-green eyes glanced over the books, taking in everything in seconds. 

 

He was dressed in a black suit that had seen better days, with a white button-up underneath it. His long, slender fingers pulled books aside and rammed new ones in, while he held a stack of books his other hand. He mumbled the titles of the books as he worked; sometimes he made a rude comment about how carelessly the book had been put back.

 

It was child’s work, really. He hated that he was treated like a servant by the museum, but since the Bembridge Scholars continued to reject his work, he was seen as nothing more than a helper. 

 

Sherlock realized one of the books he was holding belonged on the shelf across from him. He looked over his shoulder at the other shelf and glared at it. There was no way he was going all the way down, moving the ladder, and getting all the way back up. He stretched his arm out experimentally, missing the other side by a foot at least. 

 

He stretched again, refusing to give up, a look of deep concentration on his face; he almost had it when, suddenly, the ladder pulled away from the shelf it was resting against. A loud intake of breath came out of Sherlock’s mouth, and the books dropped from his hands as he used both hands to steady the ladder, which now was at the middle of the two shelves. He stood on top of it, balancing himself and waiting to see what would happen. 

 

That was something people found annoying about him– that in those moments when they became frightened or unsure, Sherlock found something in which to be interested. For him, those moments always represented an opportunity for an experiment; how would a person react to fear, or how long would that fear last. Sherlock was not afraid of being trapped at the top of the ladder– he was annoyed because he had dropped the books.

 

He knew he could not stay up there forever, and the odds of someone walking by were ten-to-one; the museum was very under-staffed. He tried to keep the ladder still and upright, but the more he did that, the more it wanted to tilt. He did a half circle, teetering back and forth. It was amusing for fifteen seconds to imagine what would happen when the ladder fell. Then Sherlock realized the outcome, and knew that no matter what he did, he could not avoid it. He looked around the room and listened for the sound of footsteps. 

 

Then, with a dramatic sigh, he let the ladder fall. It hit the bookshelf, tossing him to the floor. As his body hit the ground, he tucked as much into a ball as he could, and rolled away. 

 

Sherlock listened as the bookshelf the ladder hit was knocked back and collided with the next one, and the next one. He wondered whose bright idea it had been to put them all in a circle like that. He was standing in the center of the wreckage when someone came to investigate the commotion.

 

“Look at this! Sons of the Messiah! Compared to you, the other plagues were a joy!” The curator stood glaring in the doorway. He was a handsome middle-aged Egyptian man with graying hair, wearing a dark blue suit. If he had not said something very similar almost once a month, Sherlock might have been insulted. 

 

“It was an accident” Sherlock retorted, his tone icy. 

 

Ramesses destroying Syria,that was an accident. You, however, are a catastrophe!” He walked carefully over the debris towards Sherlock. “Why do I put up with you?” He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. 

 

Sherlock smirked, “Probably because I can read and write ancient Egyptian, decipher hieroglyphs and heretics, and I’m the only person within a thousand miles who knows how to properly code and catalogue this library.”

 

“No,” the Curator said, putting his hands on his hips. “I put up with you because your mother and father were our finest patrons, Allah rest their souls.” He gave Sherlock a stern look of disapproval. “Now straighten up this mess!” he said before storming out without another word.

 

Sherlock stood for a moment, thinking that someone of his intelligence should not be cleaning up books; that was why other people were hired. His thoughts were interrupted by a sound coming from the other room; a soft sound, almost like the clang of metal. Deciding anything was better than his work, Sherlock headed off into one of the exhibit rooms, leaving the mess behind him.

 

From what he could observe, the room was empty. Some of the other workers liked to play tricks on him, hiding behind things and jumping out at him to scare him; he was told it was supposed to be fun. 

 

Sherlock walked to the middle of the room; it was only half lit, mostly by torches burning along the edges of the room. Sherlock heard the small clang again, this time closer to him. He had an idea of what it might be, so he walked towards it. As he neared an open sarcophagus, a mummified body popped up as if it were going to attack him.

 

“Really, Mycroft?” He asked in a scathing tone.

 

Drunken laughter could be heard from inside. Mycroft’s head appeared next to the mummy’s.

 

Sherlock looked at his degenerate brother. The man who once had a promising future in politics, before he had gotten more interested in the bottle than his job, and who now spent his time treasure hunting and pick pocketing, hoping that at some point he could buy his way back into the fast track.

 

“Have you no respect for the dead?” Sherlock asked, already bored. 

 

“I only wish to join them.” Mycroft said sardonically, as he smiled drunkenly at Sherlock. 

 

Sherlock glared back down at him. “Well then you’d best do that before you ruin my career as well.”

 

“I’ll have you know my career is on something of a high note right now. Well…” Mycroft amended, “the career I’ve been forced to take since I…” He trailed off.

 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and said nothing. Mycroft, on the other hand, was climbing out of the sarcophagus, awkwardly keeping one hand on his umbrella and reaching into his pockets. Sherlock offered no help, just watched as Mycroft pulled out a small, ancient box. 

 

Sherlock’s eyes lit up. He took the box out of Mycroft’s hands, sitting down on the base of a nearby statue to examine it. “Where did you get this?” he asked.

 

“A dig down in Thebes.” Sherlock looked at him, not believing him for a minute, but Mycroft stared back, offering no other explanation. “Tell me I’ve found something.” 

 

Sherlock’s fingers danced over the edges, moving over slats and touching ridges, while his mind worked on figuring out what the object was. Then he found the right spot and pressed his finger on it, managing to make the box pop open. Inside of it sat a piece of paper.

 

“Mycroft… I think you found something.”

 

\-----

 

Mycroft and Sherlock stood outside the Curator’s office with a slightly burnt map and a bad taste in their mouths. Sherlock had wanted to verify the map, and, secretly, he had wanted the curator to acknowledge his skills when he saw it. He believed it was a map to Hamunaptra, the city of the dead. The curator had not only shot down Sherlock’s theory, but had burned a part of the map off.

 

“So, what now?” Sherlock asked. He had done his part, and it had gotten them nowhere. 

 

Mycroft sighed.

 

\-----

 

Sherlock had not expected Mycroft to take him to a prison. He should not have been surprised though. Sherlock put his hand on top of his head, trying to keep his black fedora from flying off as a sudden gust of wind came by. Mycroft, in contrast, took his cream-colored one off and held it to his chest as if protecting his heart from harm.

 

“Dig in Thebes?” Sherlock asked. 

 

Mycroft put his arm around Sherlock’s back, herding him forward and keeping him close to him, his cream hat pressing on his brother’s side. He used his umbrella like a walking stick–even after moving to Egypt, Mycroft had refused to give it up. No matter how little it rained, he never left home without his black umbrella.

 

The warden ushered them forward to the edge of a holding pen in the prison yard.

 

“What is he in prison for?” Sherlock asked, pulling his head up, trying to act as dignified as possible. 

 

The warden smiled. “When I asked him, he said he was just looking for a good time.”

 

Sherlock turned to look at Mycroft and realized he was several feet behind him. It seemed this conversation was entirely up to Sherlock.

 

The cell door burst open. Two guards dragged in a man in chains, and then shoved him to his knees in front of the bars. Sherlock looked at him. He had dirty blond hair hanging down past his chin. His face was worn by sun and fighting. His hands were rough. His clothing had most likely been decent at one point, but not for a long time. When he looked up, Sherlock was able to see his clear blue eyes. They were beautiful and angry, but under that, he saw something else: kindness. Despite his tough image, this man was not cruel.

 

Sherlock stepped closer. When he saw that the man on the other side did not move, he took another step.

 

“We found your puzzle box.” Sherlock smiled warmly at the man in a way he knew people liked. He lowered his voice so no one but the prisoner could hear him. The warden had been distracted, and thankfully had wandered off. “We’ve come to ask you about it.” Sherlock continued.

 

“No.” The man said, glaring up at Sherlock.

 

Sherlock stared at the man. He said nothing else, but it sent a shiver down his spine. 

 

“No?” Sherlock echoed. 

 

“You,” the man paused, his eyes never leaving Sherlock “came to ask me about Hamunaptra.”

 

“How-” Sherlock began.

 

“Because that’s where I found it.”

 

They stared at each it other, and Sherlock lost track of time. He only knew they had sustained eye contact longer than deemed polite, but he could not look away.

 

“Hogwash” Mycroft pushed himself between them. 

 

The man looked up at Mycroft and something crossed his face. “I know you.”

 

“I… I just have one of those faces.” Mycroft stuttered out, trying to step back. The man pulled back his left arm, and punched him hard in the jaw. Mycroft fell to the ground, and had enough sense to stay still. 

 

One of the guards leaned forward from his resting place and hit the man on the back of the head. The man closed his eyes for a moment before glaring back at his assailant. Sherlock stepped over Mycroft so he could get closer to the man in the pen. Something lit up in his eyes, and a small smile touched the edge of his lips for a moment. Sherlock smiled at the man again with a fake open smile.

 

“You swear?” Sherlock asked.

 

“Every bloody day.”

 

Sherlock glared at him.

 

“Yes, I was there.” The man smirked. “The city of The Dead”

 

“And?”

 

“And it lives up to its name. All I found was blood and death and sand.”

 

Sherlock shivered. Something in the man’s words frightened, but at the same time, excited him. Their eyes connected again, and Sherlock knew the man was not lying. He also believed the prisoner might have seen something else out there as well. Something that made his eyes look so lost. “Tell me how to get there.”

 

The man raised both eyebrows at his demand. By now, Sherlock was bent over, leaning half a foot away from the man’s face. He could smell the fact that he had not had a bath in several days.

 

“You want to know?”

 

Sherlock leaned closer and nodded. He took off his fedora to hide their faces from the warden who had reappeared close by.

 

“Are you sure?” The man stared at him as if Sherlock was asking for a knife to kill himself. Without thinking, Sherlock leaned in, almost closing the space between them. “Yes” he spat out. This was getting annoying. Sherlock was about to grab the man by the collar and demand that he told him what he wanted to know.

 

The man reached through the bars and kissed him. The whole thing took Sherlock by surprise. The man’s lips landed on his, but did not crush them; just gently rested on his. Sherlock had not closed his eyes and was staring at the eyelids of the clearly insane man. The kiss lasted no more than fifteen seconds, but to him it felt much longer. Then the guards where pulling the prisoner off him.

 

“Get me the hell out of here.” The man said trying to hold onto the bars. There was panic in his eyes as they dragged him away.

 

“Where are they taking him?” Sherlock called out to the warden, gesturing with his hat to the now empty pen. The warden stepped up next to Sherlock, glancing down at Mycroft who has recovering his posture now that he was out of danger. “To be hanged. Apparently, he had a very good time.”

 

It took some interesting negotiations, but Sherlock arranged the release of the man he now knew to be called Mr. Watson. The warden had been a stupid man. Juggling numbers in front of him had confused him. Once Sherlock had mentioned the city of The Dead, everything was set. 

 

\-----

 

Giza Port- Cairo

 

Sherlock and Mycroft walked along the docks towards the ships. Sherlock carried both their bags a bit awkwardly as he said, “Do you really think he’ll show up?”

 

“He’d better.” Mycroft swung his umbrella back and forth, not paying attention to whom it might hit.

 

Sherlock studied his brother. He had been in a bad mood ever since Mr. Watson had slugged him. “He’s filthy, rude, and a complete scoundrel, but his word is his word I suppose.” Mycroft grumbled.

 

“Anyone I know?”

 

They both turned to see Mr. Watson standing behind them. Clean-shaven, military haircut, and clean clothing that closely resembled the Foreign Legionnaires’ uniform, Sherlock could see now that Mr. Watson was an attractive man, his blue eyes standing out against his tan skin. He was in his late twenty’s-early thirties, and now that he had shaved, he looked far less ragged, and almost innocent. His chest was slightly box-shaped, due to well-defined muscles, and he was shorter than both of them were, standing at about five foot seven, while Sherlock was six feet and Mycroft six-one.

 

He was an odd third companion for their group. Sherlock and Mycroft were tall, pale and slender– though Mycroft’s weight was always seesawing, depending on how much money they had to spend on food. They dressed in suits, looking more likely to be going on a river cruise, while Mr. Watson looked like a hired gun going out to invade something. He had what Sherlock would call an air of danger about him; he wore it around himself like a sign, warning people to stay away from him.

 

Sherlock stared down at him, lost for words, the suitcases slipping from his fingers.

 

“Wonderful day to a start an adventure” Mycroft patted Mr. Watson on the chest. The latter gave him a tight smile and checked his pocket. Sherlock enjoyed watching the exchange; he was especially amused by Mycroft’s face as he realized he would not be able to pull anything over the man again. Sherlock would have loved watching them stare each other down longer, but he needed to ask something. 

 

“Mr. Watson, can you look me in the eye and promise you aren’t just leading my brother and me out into the desert for sport?”

 

Watson turned his attention to him and stared. “I can tell you this: my whole bloody garrison believed in it so much, that we marched halfway across Libya and into Egypt without orders to find that city.” He opened his mouth again to continue, but stopped. Instead, he reached down, picked up Sherlock’s bag, and carried it into the ship.

 

Sherlock watched him go; wanting very much to know what he was keeping back. Suddenly, a terrible smell wafted over from his left, and he turned to see the Warden walking by him.

 

“Morning.”

 

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock asked after him, letting his distaste for the man show in his tone. 

 

“Protecting my investment.” The man walked onto the boat while Sherlock and Mycroft stood side-by-side, both looking equally exhausted.

 

\-----

 

The full moon shone brightly down on the deck of the river cruiser as John Watson made his way across it. He was carrying his main luggage, its heavy weight served as a good reminder to him of the danger he was walking back into.

 

“Watson,” Mycroft said, waving the man over to the table where he was playing cards. John walked towards the table, nodding at the men seated around it.

 

“Sit. We need another player.” Said Mycroft without looking at him, his gaze fixated on his cards.

 

“I only gamble with my life.” John knew it sounded like a stupid line, but he did not have money to gamble. He had never been a fan of it anyway. The little money he had had, had been spent on supplies, and he saw no reason to throw it away for some slim chance at winning more.

 

“What if I were to wager five-hundred dollars that we can get to Hamunaptra before you?” Asked an American man, dressed in a grey suit. His smug smile grated on John’s nerves.

 

Watson looked at Mycroft, who refused to meet his eye. John did not need to ask who had been talking about their travel plans, it was written all over his face. He looked at the other men at the table, and saw the American men taunting him. His grip tightened on his bag, “You’re on.”

 

As John walked away, the man next to Mycroft laughed. “Your man seemed awfully confident, but we have ourselves a guide who’s been there before.” John was about to turn and throw Mycroft a death glare, but all Holmes said was how interesting that was.

 

John rounded a corner and found the younger Holmes sitting alone reading a book. It was the quietest place on the ship and the only table not covered in something, so John threw his bag on top of it. Sherlock jumped at the sound, and John offered an apologetic smile, hoping he did not seem patronizing.

 

The man sneered at him.

 

“Still angry about that kiss?” He meant it half conversationally, but he supposed he should apologize if the man was actually upset about it.

 

“You call that a kiss?” His tone was teasing.

 

John smiled, then reached for the end of his pack and unrolled it onto the table. He looked at the younger Holmes’ face as his expression opened. He realized the man liked to hide behind a neutral mask, but at that moment, he was staring at the open pack. He looked slightly puzzled, and perhaps amused. His eyes were studying each one of the weapons that lay there, and it amazed John to watch him. He could do it all day, he thought.

 

“Did I miss something? Are we going into battle?”

 

“Last time I went out there, I was the only one to walk out alive.” His eyes met Mr. Holmes’ and they just stared at each other. John sat opposite him, taking the seat slowly so as not to spook him again. “There’s something out there, something under the sand.” John picked up one of his guns and began to disassemble and clean it.

 

“I’m hoping to find a certain artifact, a book actually. Mycroft thinks he will find treasure. What do you think you’ll find?”

 

“Evil.” John deadpanned.

 

Mr. Holmes rolled his eyes and straightened himself up in the chair, making himself taller. “I don’t believe in fairytales. I do believe that the most famous book in history is buried out there, The Book of The Living.”

 

“And the fact that they say it’s made out of pure gold makes no difference to you?”

 

Mr. Holmes face lit up, a smile playing on his lips. “You know your history.”

 

“I know my treasure.” John could tell by the way at the other man stared that the lie was seen right through. “Mr. Holmes,” John started.

 

“Sherlock, please.”

 

“Sherlock, there is nothing but death waiting for you in that desert. You should turn back while you still can.”

 

“I can’t, Mr. Watson. I’m far too curious.”

 

“John.”

 

“Sorry?”

 

“My name is John.”

 

“Well then, John, why did you kiss me?”

 

John did not even pause in cleaning his guns as he shrugged his shoulders, not looking at Sherlock. “I was about to die. I thought, why not.” Sherlock glared at him and stomped off. John smiled down at his work.

 

The squeak of a truck moving caught John’s attention. He looked up from his work and saw the conspicuous shadow of a person against a wall. John got up and plucked a man up by the scruff of his shirt.

 

“My very good friend, what a surprise.” The man was taller than John was, but thinner. He had messy back hair hidden under a fez, wore the attire of a peddler and was badly in need of a shave. He looked nervously at John, awaiting his judgment. 

 

“Anderson, I should kill you for what you did.” John said as he raised a gun to Anderson’s head.

 

“You’re too good for that.” Anderson put his hands up in surrender.

 

John took a breath. “You’re the one leading the Americans. I should have figured. So what, you lead them into the middle of the desert and then leave them there to rot?”

 

“Unfortunately, they’re too smart to fall for that.”

 

John holstered his gun, but kept a hand on Anderson’s shoulder.

 

Anderson relaxed, letting out a long breath. “Why are you going back? You never believed in Hamunaptra.” 

 

“I am in debt.” John said dryly. He tried to distance himself as much as he could from the fact that he owed his life to someone.

 

“The guy with the book?”

 

John glared at him. Anderson’s hands flew up back up in surrender.

 

“Whatever floats your boat, you where always more heart than brains.” Anderson began to laugh.

 

John smiled. It was not a pleasant smile– it was the kind of smile you give to someone right before you do something horrible to them. 

 

He led Anderson closer and closer to the edge of the boat, until they were leaning against the railing. John looked at Anderson calmly, smiling at him. “Goodbye, Anderson.” 

 

He flung Anderson over the edge. He heard a short scream and a splash as Anderson’s body hit the water. He would have felt bad, but he knew Anderson could swim; also, they were not that far from the shore. His temper abated, he ignored the slew of insults Anderson called him from the water. It just proved his point– that he was fine.

 

John was packing up his things when he noticed wet footprints on the deck, heading in the direction of the cabins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please like, comment and find me at my tumblr at the same url.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope people are enjoying the edits

John followed the wet footprints all the way to the Holmes’ Brothers’ cabin. As he approached, he heard a crash on the other side of the door. That was all the proof he needed to identify them as targets. He pulled out his guns from his holster and kicked the door in. Sherlock stood by the sink in grey pajamas and a blue dressing gown, his eyes wide with panic. A man dressed all in black with tattoos on his face and a hook for a hand stood next to him. The man grabbed Sherlock to shield himself from John’s guns. John and Sherlock made eye contact for a moment, but then a flicker of the candle drew John’s attention away.

 

John turned to shoot at the port window as it opened, and the man that was climbing through it cried out in pain and fell backwards. A scream by the sink caught John’s attention; he looked over to see the man had released Sherlock to clutch at his own face. The candle from the table had been shoved into the man’s eye socket. He fell backwards from Sherlock and knocked over a lantern, catching the room on fire.

 

The man sent out a loud howl, rolling around, spreading the fire. Sherlock stood there horrified, but John stepped towards the fire to get to him.

 

Sherlock stepped towards him as well, hand reached out in front of him. John took it and pulled Sherlock briskly towards him and out of the room. He had him partway down the hall when Sherlock jerked back.

 

“The map. We forgot the map.”

 

“No we didn’t.”

 

“But that man, the one on fire has it.”

 

John turned to Sherlock and tapped the side of his head. “I’m the map, it’s all up here.” Sherlock looked at him as if that was not at all comforting.

 

Back on deck, John picked up his bag and shoved it at Sherlock. “Hold this.” Without waiting for a response, he started reloading his gun. The deck was in chaos. There was fire spreading everywhere, people jumping off the boat. The American’s were having a shoot-out while others tried to get the livestock out safely.

 

John pressed his back against a wall, and was glad when Sherlock followed suit; at least the man understood how to stay alive. Still, they were not safe, not by a long shot. Whenever John got close to the edge, someone shot at him. Even his place against the wall was unsafe, as bullets made their way down the wall. They started at the corner, and came nearer with every shot. 

 

John was so close to having his gun ready, he only needed a few more seconds and he was damned if he was going to move. Suddenly, Sherlock grabbed him by the holster and yanked him closer, moving his head a foot to the right. Two bullets pierced the wall where his head had been mere seconds before. 

 

John felt adrenaline pumping through his veins. It was exhilarating. He reached down and pried Sherlock’s fingers off him, then closed his own around his guns. He looked around the corner, guns up, and felt Sherlock behind him trying to stay in his shadow. John shot at who ever shot at him, and he felt as if he was back in the military– back out in the war. Protect Sherlock; that was his only objective.

 

He got Sherlock and himself to the edge of the boat, and grabbed his bag back.

 

“Can you swim?”

 

“Of course I can swim, if the occasion calls for it.” Sherlock glared at him. John expected him to stomp his foot any second.

 

John took Sherlock’s hand, “It calls for it.” Sherlock nodded, a subdued expression etched on his face. They jumped out together, John squeezing Sherlock’s hand as they hit the water.

 

\-----

 

John, Sherlock, Mycroft and the Warden walked out of the water onto the sandy beach. John was the only one with his bag, though Mycroft still had his umbrella and his hat. 

 

Sherlock threw himself dramatically onto the sand in a fit of pique. “We’ve lost everything. My books, my tools, my clothes.”

 

“Watson!” Anderson’s voiced sang from a distance.

 

John and the others stared across the beach to the other side of the river. Anderson and the rest of the crew from the boat were milling about, and trying to get the horses under control. 

 

“Looks like I got all the horses!” Anderson ran about like a deranged man in the shallow water. 

 

“Hey Anderson,” John deadpanned back, “looks like you’re on the wrong side of the river.” Anderson looked around him, and then kicked the water in rage.

 

\-----

 

Sahara Desert Sand Dunes

 

Setting out into the desert, John placed some distance between himself and Sherlock, taking the lead. He had them ride in a line one after the other, the warden coming up last since no one wanted to follow him.

 

Ever since the Bedouin Trading Post, where Sherlock had located an old military uniform, John had refused to speak to him. He always looked a bit over his shoulder as if he wanted to talk but could not find the words. 

 

It was the uniform. It had to be. John had been civil to him when Sherlock had been walking around in his pajamas. When he had returned in his new clothing, Mycroft and John had been waiting with the camels. Mycroft had made a comment about John speaking better Arabic than Sherlock, but John had just stared at the uniform. Sherlock was getting the impression that John’s time in the military had not been a pleasant one.

 

John spoke little, if at all, as they made their way across the expanse of desert. Sherlock also began to notice a hunching on his left shoulder. John would roll it sometimes like it bothered him, but he never complained about it.

 

Unlike Mycroft, who did nothing but complain. If he was not holding his umbrella over his head telling everyone how unfair life was, then he was snoring after drinking too much and falling asleep.

 

With John, the only companion who might be worth talking to, giving the group the silent treatment, Sherlock spent his time cataloging information in his head.

 

After several days of riding all day and night, mostly in an almost-silence, John looked at Sherlock. He let his attention drift back into the present, in case John was about to tell him something important.

 

“We’re almost there.” 

 

Sherlock saw intensity in John’s eyes, a great longing to be anywhere but where he was, but still yearning to find excitement. Sherlock remembered how calm he had been on the boat; how, no matter how crazy it got, he walked towards danger rather than away from it.

 

“Look down.” John whispered.

 

Sherlock did, and realized they were standing in a desert of skeletons. Most of them where half buried by sand, giving the effect that they were trying to claw their way out of the earth.

 

Mycroft’s face wrinkled in disgust, “What the bloody hell is this?”   
John’s face was devoid of expression as he responded, “The way to Hamunaptra.” 

 

Sherlock saw Mycroft shiver and the warden cover his mouth and nose with his handkerchief.

 

Heads appeared over the top of a nearby dune, and the Americans, accompanied by their dig team, rode over the top to meet them.

 

“Good morning, Captain.” Anderson called as he led his camel close to John’s.

 

“Aren’t you ashamed to call me that?” John asked bitterly, glaring at him.

 

Anderson’s face darkened, and then reddened. Sherlock could tell there was some history there, but how deep it went he was unsure. He watched the two men look away from each other, and out at the flat expanse of nothingness.

 

“What, pray tell, are we doing?” Mycroft asked.

 

“We’re waiting.” John said, looking perfectly calm.

 

“First one to the city, Watson, five hundred dollars!” One of the American’s called out.

 

John nodded, but kept his gaze locked on the sand in front of him. Then the tip of his whip touched Sherlock’s arm.

 

He looked at John, ready for what was to come next

 

“Get ready.”

 

“For what?” Sherlock tried to follow his gaze. 

 

“We’re about to be shown the way.” Sherlock looked at John’s expressionless face again. He knew he was hiding something by doing that, but he did not have time to care.

 

As the sun rose, shapes that were not there a moment ago started to glimmer into view. Hamunaptra appeared like a mirage, but then became solid as if it had been there the whole time.

 

Without warning, everyone took off like a stampede. It was a flurry of hooves and yelling, and Sherlock- who usually did not compete- was right in there with them.

 

Sherlock watched John and the greasy man, Anderson, take the lead. As Anderson came alongside Watson, he cracked his whip at him three times before John took hold of the man and threw him off his camel. Sherlock enjoyed watching John do this; it gave him an odd feeling, like pride, but that was wrong.

 

Sherlock could hear Mycroft yelling behind him…or was he singing? It was hard to tell with Mycroft.

 

Sherlock came abreast with John for a moment, long enough to smirk at him. John raised an eyebrow, and then Sherlock’s camel raced ahead.

 

“Go Sherly go!” Mycroft yelled from behind him as Sherlock entered the city, trailed closely by John.

 

\-----

 

John tied a rope around a pillar while Sherlock used an old mirror to reflect the sun. Mycroft was sprawled out on the ground, his head under his umbrella. The warden seemed to want to watch everything, and kept getting in the way. John wished he would wander off and get lost.

 

“Do we have to work here? That thing gives me the creeps.” Mycroft asked, pointing upward.

 

“Be nice. We’re old friends.” John looked up and saw Sherlock looking at him, but ignored it.

 

“That thing, Mycroft, is the statue of Anubis. According to Bembridge Scholars, there’s a secret compartment inside it that contains The Book of the Living.”

 

Mycroft pushed himself up and closed his umbrella. “What’s with the mirrors?”

 

“Have you forgotten everything our parents taught us?” Sherlock put his hands on his hips and sneered at his brother.

 

Mycroft looked at John, who shrugged and rappelled down into the crevice at Anubis’ shoulders.

 

After Sherlock, Mycroft, and the Warden had joined him underground, they began to look around. John held a torch up so they could see. 

 

“Do you realize we are standing inside a room that no one has entered in over three thousand years?”

 

“You live for this stuff don’t you?” John looked up at Sherlock, who bit his lip.

 

“I don’t have any field experience. This was going to be my big break.”

 

“Was?”

 

“I have no tools, what can I do?”

 

“Oh,” John handed Sherlock the torch and opened his pack enough to pull out a small parcel. “The American’s had an extra set that they were more than happy to sell me… seeing how they owe me so much money.”

 

John handed Sherlock the tool pack and took the torch back. He watched Sherlock open the pack and gaze at the tools.

 

“Thank you.” Sherlock looked touched, like he was not used to people being nice to him.

 

“You can’t do your job without your tools.” 

 

Sherlock nodded.

 

“Wasn’t there a point to playing with those mirrors above, Sherly?” Mycroft drawled. 

 

“Right.” 

 

John watched Sherlock walk over to a mirror, clean it off, and reposition it. It caught the sun coming through the hole they had rappelled down, and the whole room filled with light.

 

\-----

 

John led the group, with Sherlock’s instructions, down a series of hallways until they found the legs of Anubis. Sherlock brushed past John who had to look away. The uniform brought back too many bad memories.

 

It reminded him of long nights with little to eat or drink, wounds that did not seem to want to close, friends dead before their time. There were darker memories hidden behind those, but he refused to let them surface. John reminded himself to stay in the present; he could do nothing about the past.

 

Sherlock was next to the statue, his fingers tracing hieroglyphs on it when John heard a snapping sound. He stepped next to Sherlock, blocking his body from anyone who would come around the corner. Mycroft stepped to the other side of Sherlock. John looked, but the Warden was gone. So be it, the Warden was not in the deal.

 

John heard the sound again, closer, and pulled out his guns. He edged his way to the corner, aware that Sherlock was pressing himself against his back. It was a good, warm feeling¬; it reminded him of his goal.

 

John stepped around the corner, guns raised, Mycroft next to him with a small gun in one hand and his umbrella in the other. Sherlock stood behind, the torch held high. 

 

In front of them were the Americans; all stood guns out, looking a lot more frightened than menacing. When everyone realized they knew each other, they sighed in relief, except John. No one lowered their guns.

 

One of the American’s, who was clothed in western wear, Henderson, if John remembered correctly spoke up, “Ya scared the hell out of us.” 

 

“Likewise.” Mycroft used the hand holding his umbrella to wipe sweat off his face as he spoke.

 

There was a tense silence, and then Sherlock sighed behind John.

 

“Are you going to stand there all day, or are you going to go to continue on your way?” 

 

The silence stretched on.

 

“Oh, I see. You think you’re digging here.” Sherlock laughed.

 

“Who says you are?” An unarmed man in a fez and a suit asked.

 

John wordlessly directed one of his guns at the man. The man was rude and entitled, a bit like Sherlock, but John was watching Sherlock’s back. Therefore, while, in Sherlock, he might find those attributes interesting, in this man, they were just annoying.

 

“Ten to one Watson, your odds don’t look so good.” A grin spread across Anderson’s greasy face. The glint in his eyes told John he wanted the shootout to happen.

 

“I’ve faced worse.” John sneered.

 

“Me too.” Mycroft sputtered out. John did his best not to laugh. Then he heard one of Sherlock’s dramatic sighs behind him. Part of him wanted to turn around and look at Sherlock, but he was not about to take his eyes off the armed men in front of him.

 

“Well, if they want to contaminate the area, they can have it.” Sherlock reached out and put his hand on John’s arm making him look at him. “There are other places to dig.”

 

\-----

 

Sherlock watched John and Mycroft bang against the ceiling of the room they were digging in. It was a dirty trick digging up under the feet of the statue, but he did not like the odds of them winning the standoff from before.

 

They had been out numbered, and no matter how good a shot John was, he could not have taken them all without being wounded in return. Mycroft would have been next to useless; he might have drawn fire as he ran away, but that was it.

 

“You sure this is going to work?” Mycroft asked, mopping his brow while John kept banging at the ceiling.

 

“According to my calculations, we should be right under the statue. We’ll come up right between his legs.”

 

“Oh my,” Mycroft chuckled and went back to work.

 

“So the plan is to steal the book right out from under them?” John asked, not stopping his work.

 

“Yes.”

 

An hour later, Mycroft had given up on the ceiling and had started playing golf with the tools and rocks on the ground. John, on the other hand, was still hard at work.  
Sherlock had spent the time explaining things like mummification and rituals in ancient Egypt. John had listened, murmuring back to him.

 

The longer John worked, the more he rolled his left shoulder. Sherlock watched with growing interest. John had a sheen of sweat on his brow, but he refused to rest. 

 

“If you’re in pain, you should take a break.” Sherlock finally said, hoping if he said something John would sit down for a while.

 

“I’m fine.” John snapped.

 

“Clearly-” the ceiling suddenly caved in where John was working. John jumped back, grabbing Sherlock and pulling him a safe distance away.

 

Across the rubble Sherlock saw Mycroft turn to look at them, panic clearly etched on his face.

 

“Everyone alright?” John asked.

 

“Fine.” Mycroft called, trying to control his voice. He half squawked and then tried to clear his throat.

 

Sherlock nodded and squeezed the hand on his waist. John let him go and stepped away from him, looking at the ground.

 

Sherlock looked at what had fallen and saw a sarcophagus nestled amongst the rubble.

 

“There’s nothing written about anyone being buried at the feet of Anubis.” A smile spread across his face. “We found someone either very important or someone very bad.”

 

Sherlock stepped forward and began to brush the dirt off the sarcophagus. John and Mycroft’s hands joined him in his effort.

 

“Who is he?” Mycroft asked impatiently.

 

Sherlock read the hieroglyphs, confusion building in him.

 

“He that shall not be named.”

 

Sherlock looked at the part John had dusted off. He moved into John’s space, his fingers playing in the spot John had cleared.

 

“A key…. a key.” 

 

Sherlock thought back to the boat, when the man with the hook had attacked him in his room. He had taken the map and demanded the key, but Sherlock had no idea what he had meant. 

 

“Mycroft, do you still have that puzzle box?”

 

“Yes.” Mycroft reached into his coat pocket and held it out. 

 

Sherlock opened the box and pushed it into the lock. Sherlock looked at John, then at Mycroft. 

 

“It’s a key.”

 

“I’ll be damned.” Mycroft smiled at Sherlock, sharing the joy of the discovery.

 

Screams filled the air from down one of the hallways. John pulled one of his guns out and headed off to investigate. Sherlock followed.

 

“If I asked you stay behind would it do me any good?” John asked.

 

“No,” Sherlock smiled as their eyes met. John returned it briefly before turning back to the sound.

 

As they entered the first hallway, the Warden came running at them holding his head. He ran through them screaming, and into the wall at the end of the hall. He fell down, dead. 

 

\-----

 

Sherlock and Mycroft sat next to the fire John had built for them. Near the entrance where they had rappelled down, (within a screaming distance from the American’s camp) a spot John felt would be safest. Sherlock kept a blanket around his shoulders, trying to stay warm now that the sun had gone down.

 

“Seems like the Americans had some losses of their own.” John said, making his way back from his visit to the other camp.

 

Sherlock looked up as John sat down next to him, putting his rifle on his far side.

 

“How?” Sherlock asked.

 

“Pressurized salt acids in an ancient booby-trap.”

 

“Maybe this place really is cursed.” Mycroft said, more to the fire than to them.

 

As if on cue, a gust of wind came through and the fire flickered. Mycroft looked at John, who shrugged.

 

Sherlock laughed.

 

“Don’t believe in curses?” John smiled at him.

 

“No. If I can see it and I can touch it, then it is real. That’s what I believe in.” Sherlock looked right at John when he said it, seeing if he got a rise out of him.

 

“I believe in being prepared.” John cocked his rifle, which was far too attractive of a movement for Sherlock’s taste.

 

They stared at each other again, in that way that was completely comfortable for longer than was necessary. Sherlock knew he should look away, but he did not want to.

 

“Ow!” Mycroft shouted, breaking the moment.

 

They both turned to look at him.

 

“What?” John asked.

 

Mycroft pulled his hand out a bag that was not his, and put it in his mouth. With his other hand, he reached back in and pulled out a bottle of liquor with the top broken off. “Looks like the Warden left us something to toast his passing with.” He lifted the bottle to his lips and took a swig. 

 

They were just starting to laugh when John turned and looked out past the ruins. He reached for his elephant gun and tossed it to Sherlock. “Stay here!” He commanded before running off into the dark ruins.

 

Sherlock was up and after him in seconds.

 

“Sher-, Sherlock he said - -!” Mycroft shouted after him.

 

The American’s camp was in a panic. Diggers were running for their lives, men on horseback dressed all in black and wielding sabers seemed to come from nowhere, attacking anyone they could reach. The American’s shot with less finesse and more for the sake of using as many bullets as they could.

 

Sherlock looked for John, but he could not see him. Then he heard the sound of a horse behind him and turned just in time to shoot a man who had come up behind him. The gun had such a hard kick that he ended up on the ground, flat on his back.

 

\-----

 

John had used up the ammo for his rifle and was down to his pistol. It was like a horrible flashback to three years ago, when he had last been in the same ruins. The air smelled of blood and burnt gunpowder. He was doing his best to breathe deep and stay in the present. He kept one thing in mind: kill the person trying to kill you.

 

John heard someone scream his name and turned around, thinking it might be Sherlock, but it was the older brother running around, still holding onto that bloody bottle. John was tempted to leave the man to his own devices, but he had a contract. He rushed the man on horseback that was chasing him, forcing him to the ground.

 

They rolled until they both came up onto their knees. The man leapt towards John holding a sword, but Watson shot at it, sending it flying. Thinking the man was disarmed, he focused his attention on someone else. Only, when he turned back, he saw the man coming at him again; he went to shoot, but the man knocked his gun away with his other sword. 

 

John looked around for a second and thanked his lucky stars. He rolled backwards, which hurt, but was necessary. He picked up a stick of dynamite and lit the end in a fire, holding it in front of himself like a weapon.

 

The man he was fighting started at him, raising his sword and waiting to see what he would do. He seemed to notice that John was serious about the dynamite and slowly lowered his weapon.

 

“Enough!” the man yelled, “We will shed no more blood, but you must leave. Leave this place or die. You have one day.” Then he got on his horse, and rode out of the camp with the rest of the horse riders.

 

John pulled the fuse out of the dynamite and tossed it away. He started searching for his pistol- it could not have gone far. Instead, he saw his elephant gun sticking straight up into the air behind a pillar. 

 

His gut twisted as he jumped over and found Sherlock in one piece, staring at the sky looking confused and slightly horrified. John leaned down to search him for wounds, but it seemed the only thing on him was dust and sand. John took the gun from him and set it to the side, making sure he was all right.

 

“Hey,” John said softly, placing a hand under Sherlock’s head and slowly bringing him up to a sitting position.

 

Sherlock groaned, but let himself be moved.

 

“Let’s get you standing, ok?”

Sherlock looked at him and tilted his head. “Are you alright?”

John nodded, though it was a lie. He was very far from fine, but he did not want to say that. Slowly, John and Sherlock stood together. Sherlock swayed, but John grabbed his forearms to hold him up.

 

“I’m fine, really.” Sherlock was looking slightly annoyed, which was the best news John could have.

 

“See that proves it. Ol’ Seti’s fortunes gotta be under this sand!” One of the American’s yelled.

 

“For them to protect it like this, you just know there’s got to be treasure down there.” Another added.

 

John turned from Sherlock, both still with an arm around each other. “No. These men are desert dwellers. They value water, not gold.”

 

Everyone looked around at each other, suddenly very worried.

 

“Maybe, just at night, we should combine forces?” One of the Americans asked, smiling at John shyly.


	3. Chapter 3

John and Sherlock stood facing each other, fists raised.  Mycroft had drunk himself to sleep half an hour before, and, since then, John had been trying to show a slightly drunk Sherlock how to fight.  He had to admit, Sherlock was a quick learner, which was good. He would feel much better about leaving Sherlock alone if he knew the man could defend himself.

 

 

“Now, come at me with the right hook I just showed you.”  John smiled, holding out his palms facing Sherlock bracing for his punch.  “And mean it.”

 

 

“And mean it!”  Sherlock mumbled as he threw the punch.

 

 

He put too much weight behind it, and sent his body with it, crashing into John who caught him on instinct.  They both fell into the blankets next to the fire. When John looked up at Sherlock, he was laughing.  He was clearly too drunk to continue.  Sherlock stayed on top of him, looking down at John, his hair falling into his face.

 

 

“Perhaps it’s time for another drink?” John offers.  He needed Sherlock to get off him before he got hard.

 

 

“Unlike my brother, sir, I know when to say no.” He said. Still, he got off him all the same, reached for the bottle Mycroft was clutching, and took a long drink. He winced as he drank, clearly not enjoying the taste.

 

 

John sat up and Sherlock leaned back to take a seat, leaving then practically sitting in each other’s laps.  “And _you_ sir, unlike your brother, I just don’t get you.”  John said, trying not to count the moles on Sherlock’s neck.

 

 

“Ah, I know,” Sherlock smiled. “You’re wondering, what’s a place like me doing in a man like this?”  He smiled at John and placed the bottle back down by his brother.

 

 

“Sure.”  John smiled at him, nodding.

 

 

“Egypt is my past.  My mother was a famous explorer.  She loved Egypt so much, that she married my father the curator of the Egyptian artifacts in the British Museum.  I was raised on Egyptian history.”  He looked at John as if this explained everything.

 

 

John nodded.  “I get your mother, I get your father, and I get him.”  He pointed to Mycroft.  “But what are you doing here?”

 

 

Sherlock glared at him and staggered to his feet. “I may not be an explorer, or an adventurer, or a treasure hunter, or a gunfighter, Mr. Watson! But I am what I am!”

 

 

John’s hands had shot up around Sherlock’s legs when he had stood, not holding him, but bracketing him in case he fell. “And what is that?” He asked.

 

 

“I am a librarian!”  Sherlock sounded proud for a second, but then his face fell as if he had admitted something he would have rather not.  He looked back down at John, who was still holding his arms around Sherlock’s legs to catch him.

 

 

Suddenly, Sherlock fell to his knees, his face impossibly close to John’s. Then, he reached out and took John’s face in his hands, holding it firmly in place.  “I’m going to kiss you.”

 

 

Sherlock leaned in and pressed his lips to John’s. It was light, just the faintest brush of lips.  John let him do it, wondering how far it would go.  Then, Sherlock pushed forward harder and John placed a hand on Sherlock’s back. They stayed like that for a while, moving their lips slowly, softly against each other’s.

 

 

John leaned back to look at Sherlock. The man smiled at him before promptly passing out in his lap.

 

 

 

\-----

 

 

 

Sherlock waited as John and Mycroft set the sarcophagus against the wall so he could see it better.

 

 

“Oh, I’ve dreamed about this since I was a little boy.” Sherlock said, rubbing his hands together.

 

 

John looked at him as if he was worried about him. “You dream about dead blokes?”

 

 

Sherlock knew he was joking, but he glared at John anyways.  He cleaned the rest of the dirt off the sarcophagus and then paused.  “Look, all the sacred spells have been chiseled off.   This man must have been condemned not only in this life, but in the next one as well.”

 

 

“Tough break.”  John patted the side, looking at the sarcophagus as if he were thinking about something else.

 

 

“Yes, I’m all in tears. Now, let’s see who is inside, shall we?”  Mycroft placed the key into the lock and started to twist.

 

 

Sherlock took a step back as John and Mycroft each took a side, lifting the lid slowly.  A low hiss emanated from the sarcophagus as they worked to slide the lid off. Sherlock watched in rapture, like a child opening a present on Christmas morning.  Finally, the lid gave and the mummy inside sprang up.  Its face was contorted and covered in a black sludge.

 

 

They all jumped back, yelling at the sight of it.

 

 

“I hate it when these things do that.” Sherlock grumbled, stepping closer.

 

 

“Is he supposed to look like that?” John asked, sounding as if he had composed himself.

 

 

Mycroft was still bent over, trying to get his breathing under control.

 

 

“No.  I’ve never seen a mummy look like this.  He’s still….”

 

 

“Juicy?”  Mycroft offered weakly.

 

 

“Yes.  It’s more than four thousand years old, and it looks as if it’s still decomposing.” Sherlock smiled, he loved a mystery. He would need samples of everything, and then, when he got back to Cairo, he would need access to a lab. Perhaps this is what would get the attention of the Bembridge Scholars!

 

 

“Look at this.”  Sherlock turned to see John, pointing at the inside of the sarcophagus lid.

 

 

“These marks were made with finger nails.” Sherlock looked at John. “He was buried alive.” He returned his attention to the lid. “He left a message: ‘Death is only the beginning’.”

 

 

 

\-----

 

 

 

As Sherlock made his way through the American’s camp that night, he saw one of them struggling with a book. He would not have thought anything of it, but he saw the hieroglyphics on the cover of the book and the indent, which was the same shape of the key that Mycroft had in his bag back at their camp. The man stopped trying to force the book open when he saw Sherlock staring.

 

 

Sherlock smiled and walked away, not wanting to ruin hours of frustration for the man until he realized the book needed a key to open.

 

 

He spotted John through the American’s tents and headed in his direction, until he heard a second voice.

 

 

“When are you going to get over this anger? It’s no good for you.”  It sounded like the American’s guide, Anderson.  Sherlock knew he and John had a past, but he did not know to what extent.

 

 

“I feel like I have the right to be angry!” John bellowed.

 

 

Anderson put his hands up in front of him as an act of surrender.  “Yes, you out of all of us should be the most upset.  You stayed ‘till the very end.”

 

 

‘Is he talking about the battle that had been fought here?’ Sherlock wondered.

 

 

“But if rumors are correct, the man is dead. Can’t you at least be satisfied with that?”  Anderson smiled, trying to appease John.

 

 

Sherlock took a step forward to get a better view of John.  If he could see him, he would be able to read his emotions better.  John looked up at the direction Sherlock was coming from. He put a hand up for Anderson to stop talking and walked over to the tents.  When he found Sherlock standing there, he relaxed. 

 

 

“I’m not talking about this with you anymore, Anderson. Get it through your head. You’re not forgiven.”

 

 

Sherlock noticed the darkness in John’s eyes– he didn’t like it.  He wanted to make John laugh again, but he was at a loss for words,  so they just stood there in silence.

 

 

“Aren’t you going to ask?”  John smiled, but it did not reach his eyes.

 

 

“Ask?”  Sherlock’s tongue suddenly felt heavy.

 

 

“Why I was in prison?  Who it was we were talking about?

 

 

“I was told you were having a good time when you were arrested.”  Sherlock said softly, trying to get his composure back.

 

 

John laughed bitterly and started walking back towards their camp, with Sherlock trailing behind him.  “If you call murder a good time, sure.”

 

 

“You killed someone?”  Sherlock stopped, forcing John to stop as well.

 

 

“I’ve killed a lot of people, mostly in battle. The man I was after was the Major in charge of my regiment, Major James Sholto, who abandoned us to die when the fight got tough.  Not only that, but he reported that there had been no survivors, so no one came to our aid.” John looked at the ground. “We followed him here because we believed in him, and he left us here to die.”

 

 

“So you killed him?”

 

 

John nodded.  They stared at each other for a while.  Sherlock was about to say he did not care that John had killed a man in what could have been interpreted as cold blood, as far as he was concerned, the man had it coming, but one of the Americans interrupted them.

 

 

 

“Say, Watson, whaddya think these honeys’ll fetch back home?” A man by the name of Henderson, if Sherlock remembered correctly, asked.

 

 

Sherlock had not realized how far back into camp they had wandered.

 

 

“We hear you gentlemen found yerselves a nice gooey mummy.” Said one of the other Americans, Burns, Sherlock believed.  “Ya know, if you dry him out, ya can sell him for firewood.”  He smiled as if he thought he was actually clever.

 

 

The two Americans laughed together and walked off, clearly having done what they came for.  Shoving in the face of the Brits the fact that they had found something they secretly believed was valuable.

 

 

When Sherlock turned to look at John, his faced had closed off; it was clear the conversation from before was over. They made their way to the fire where Mycroft was lamenting, not savoring, his bottle.

 

 

Sherlock wanted to get John talking again, and he wanted John to be thinking about something other than a dead man, so he put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a handful of scarab skeletons.

 

 

“Look what I found– flesh eaters. I found them inside our friend’s coffin.  They can stay alive for years, living off a corpse’s remaining flesh.  He had the unfortunate pleasure of having them start eating him while he was still alive.”

 

 

John looked at the bugs in his hand and even picked one up.  “So, somebody threw them in with our guy and they slowly ate him alive?”  He looked up at Sherlock for confirmation.

 

 

Sherlock made his eyes as wide as possible for effect. “ _Very_ slowly.”

 

 

“He certainly wasn’t a popular fellow.” Mycroft muttered, watching them.

 

 

“According to my readings, our friend suffered the HOM-DAI, the worst of all ancient Egyptian curses. One reserved for only the most evil blasphemers.  In all of my research, I’ve never heard of this curse actually having been performed.” Sherlock’s excitement grew with his every word.

 

 

“That bad?”  John asked, smiling at him.

 

 

“They never used it because they feared it so much. It’s written that if a victim of the HOM-DAI ever rises, he would bring with him the ten plagues of Egypt.”

 

 

 

\-----

 

 

 

 

John listened to the sound of Sherlock sneaking back into camp (he had tiptoed off a while ago, and he had wondered why). As he rolled over towards the fire, he saw something he was not expecting.

 

 

Sherlock was sitting on his pallet with a big black book; one John had seen in the American’s camp.  The man who had had it looked very proud of his find. John did not think it was likely that he would have loaned it to Sherlock.

 

 

“You stole that.”  John said, pushing himself up onto his elbows.

 

 

Sherlock turned and looked at him. Then he smiled wide like a child sharing a secret. “I’m going to give it back.”

 

 

“Only because you have to.”  John returned his smile and sat up all of the way, edging closer to see.  When Sherlock looked up at him, he felt warmth pull in his groin.   God, the man was beautiful.  “I thought the book of Amun-Ra was made of pure gold?”

 

 

“It is. This is not the book of Amun-Ra…this is something else.  I think this may be the Book of the Dead.”  Sherlock’s eyes glinted with the light of the fire as he spoke.  He took the key from his pocket and opened the book, holding it up for John to see.

 

 

“The book of the dead?  You sure you want to be playing around with that thing?” John asked, resting a hand on his rifle. .

 

 

Sherlock lowered the key to the book and began to unlock it.  “It’s just a book. No harm ever came from reading a book.”

 

 

As Sherlock opened the cover, a huge gust of wind blew though the camp.  John glared at Sherlock, who looked at him as if he was being idiotic.  John picked up his rifle and held it by his side, if nothing else, to feel safer.

 

 

Sherlock started to read aloud from the book. The words meant nothing to John, but Sherlock’s voice was comforting.

 

 

A scream came from the American’s camp. “No, you must not read from the book!”

 

 

A high-pitched chirping sound filled the air, and John looked around to see what it was.  A grunt sounded near him as Mycroft woke.  John jumped to his feet, pulling Sherlock with him. Mycroft pushed himself up with his umbrella.

 

 

John could see a dark mass in the distance rapidly moving towards them, bringing the sound closer.  Without thinking, he reached for Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock squeezed back as they realized it was a massive cloud of locust. 

 

 

“Run!”  John yelled, pulling Sherlock behind him.  He hoped that Mycroft and the American’s would follow, but at that moment, all he could think was to keep Sherlock safe.  They entered the labyrinth of tunnels, John and Sherlock each grabbed a torch and started looking for a safe place to hide.

 

 

A few times the place quaked as if something was changing about it.  Then, as they came around a corner, the ground burst open and scarabs bled out of it. Sherlock tossed his torch into the heart of the opening, but it did little to stop them.

 

 

They turned the other way and ran, Mycroft taking the torch so that John could shoot.  They ran up a stone ramp only to find scarabs coming from the other direction as well. John jumped off the ramp to a column, and then he watched Mycroft jump onto the one beside him and Sherlock jump onto a grotto on the other side.  The scarabs mingled on the ramp for a moment, then rushed up it as if they had somewhere else to be.

 

 

John took his eyes off the ramp and looked to where Sherlock should have been standing, except he was not. 

 

 

“Sherlock?”  John called out.

 

 

“Sherl?”  Mycroft said, peering out across the ramp.

 

 

The two of them looked at each other, and then called out much more frantically.

 

 

 

\-----

 

 

 

Sherlock took a moment to take in what had happened. He had been on the grotto waiting for the scarabs to pass, when the wall behind him had shifted.  He touched it, trying to find a spot he could press to make it turn around again, but found none. Leaning his full weight against it did not help either.  So it was a one-way door?

 

 

He was wondering whether he should stay where he was and wait to be found, or go looking for John and Mycroft, when he heard a noise.  He looked around the edge of the wall and saw one of the Americans with his back turned to him. Well, at least he was not alone. Perhaps the man knew where they were.

 

 

“Your name’s Barns, or was it Burns?” Sherlock asked, stepping closer to him.

 

 

The man turned around revealing his face. He was missing his eyes and tongue. Sherlock stopped and stared. It was fascinating. To remove the organs from the man with no surgical scars was unheard of.  Sherlock took a step forward.

 

 

“My eyes, my eyes!” The man began to squawk.

 

 

Sherlock backed away in case the man got violent.  He bumped into something and when he turned around, he saw the impossible. The Mummy they had found earlier was walking upright.  He was still in a decomposed state, except for his new eyes.

 

 

Sherlock’s mind shut down. He backed away slowly until his back hit a wall.  He was not going to scream, because this was not real. It couldn’t be.  The Mummy walked towards him, staring down at him. God, he really needed John to come save him from this one.

 

 

The Mummy got a few feet away from him, and then squinted.  “Anck-Su-Namun?”

 

 

Sherlock looked at the American man who had passed out on the ground.  Was that what was going to happen to him?

 

 

“Come with me, my Prince Anck-Su-Namun.”

 

 

‘Wait…did he just call me a prince?’ 

 

 

“There you are! Let’s run, we need to get out of here!” John called to him.

 

 

Sherlock was relieved to hear John’s voice, but he did not want to take his eyes off the Mummy in case it moved.  When John got close enough to touch, he reached out and gripped his arm.  John must have noticed there was something wrong, because he looked in the direction Sherlock was.

 

 

“Whoa!”

 

 

The Mummy had grown furious since Sherlock had started touching John.  Then it started to advance on them.

 

 

“Sherl!” Mycroft called from the tunnel.

 

 

The Mummy turned its attention to the approaching voice.  When it turned back to John and Sherlock, it let out a huge bellow. “Ahhhhh!”

 

 

Both John and Sherlock leaned back into the wall. When The Mummy stopped screaming, John’s approach changed. He pushed himself away from the wall and bellowed back.  It was not as impressive and, in fact, it made him look quite stupid, but the idea was clear.  John was not intimidated.  He then lifted his rifle and shot the Mummy, who crumpled to the ground.

 

 

John grabbed Sherlock’s arm and began to run, the others catching up behind them.

 

 

As they made their way out into the ruins, they came face–to-face with the men who had attacked them the other night.  They had the American who had found the Book of the Dead kneeling at their feet. He clutched the book to himself as if it was a beloved child.

 

 

John let Sherlock go and put his hands up, the latter following suit.

 

 

“I told you to leave or die. You refused to listen, and now you have killed us all. You have unleashed the creature that we have feared for more than four thousand years.”

 

 

“I got him.” John said, edging slightly in front of Sherlock.

 

 

Sherlock leaned against him, less for himself and more for John.  He had gotten the sense that John felt better when he could actually feel Sherlock against him.

 

 

“No mortal weapon can kill this creature.  He is not of this world.” Two men came forward, carrying the maimed American.   They set him down on the ground next to his friends, who took him in hand.

 

 

“You bastards! What did you do to him?”  One asked.

 

 

“He was like that when I ran into him below.”  Sherlock offered. The man in charge looked at Sherlock. “The creature did it.”

 

 

“Leave quickly before he finishes you all.”  He motioned for his men to walk forward.  “We must now go on the hunt and try to find a way to kill him.”  He started to walk past them, but stopped next to John and spoke directly to him.  “Know this: This creature is the bringer of death. It will never eat, never sleep, and it will never stop.”

 

 

 

\-----

 

 

 

Fort Brydon - Cairo

 

 

John grabbed up Sherlock’s suit hangers and carried them out of the closet.  “I thought you didn’t believe in this stuff.” He was pissed. Sherlock was suddenly a believer and wanted to be a hero.  John unceremoniously tossed Sherlock’s clothing in the trunk on his bed and headed for his dresser.

 

 

“Having an encounter with a four thousand year old walking-talking corpse tends to convert one.”

 

 

When John turned around, Sherlock was taking his suits out of the trunk. 

 

 

“Forget it. We’re out the door, down the hall, and _gone_.” He gathered Sherlock’s undergarments and pajamas and threw them into the trunk.

 

 

“No, we’re not!” Sherlock said and glared at him.

 

 

Just then, John hated himself for being attracted to Sherlock.  He wanted to give the man whatever he wanted.

 

 

“Yes we are.” John ground out, turning away to pick up a stack of Sherlock’s books.

 

 

“No, we are not. We woke him up, and we must try and stop him.”

 

 

John dropped the books in the trunk and looked at Sherlock, bemused.  “We? What, _we_? _We_ didn’t read that book.  I told _you_ not to play around with it.” John went and picked up another stack of books.

 

 

“Alright then!” Sherlock stomped his foot, dropping the books he had taken out of the trunk onto the floor.  “Me, me, me, _I_ read from the book, _I_ woke him up and _I_ intend to stop him.”

 

 

John picked up the suits that had been taken out of the trunk and threw them back in. “How?  You heard the man; no mortal weapons can kill this guy!” John was so close to throwing Sherlock against the wall and calling him and idiot.  The man was trying to play soldier.

 

 

“Oh well, then we’ll just find some immortal ones!”

 

 

“You’re asking me to go to war again!”  John shouted. Sherlock gaped at him; there was sadness and pity in his eyes.  Sherlock reached for him, but John backed away. He would not stay and be looked at like that.

 

 

“Shit,” Sherlock muttered, “John! John, come back!”

 

 

John was already out of the room and down the hall.

 

 

John went to the bar. He needed to stop thinking, and quickly. As he entered, he passed Winston, a familiar old drunk who was a soldier like him.  Mycroft was sitting at the bar, and while the two were not friends, it was better than drinking alone.

 

 

When Mycroft saw him, he poured him a drink from the bottle he had.  John downed the contents in his glass, wincing at the taste.

 

 

“Alright old chap? Mycroft asked, pouring him another.

 

 

“Your brother-”

 

 

“Yes, he’s always been like that.”  Mycroft smiled, taking a large swig.

 

 

Henderson, one of the Americans, joined them. He looked distressed.

 

 

“’How’s your friend?” John asked.

 

 

“How do you think? His eyes and his tongue were ripped out.”

 

 

John decided not to mention that he had seen a lot worse.

 

 

“A toast,” Mycroft offered his bottle and a third glass to Henderson.  After Mycroft had filled the glasses and passed them around, they clinked them together.

 

 

“Good luck,” Henderson said, “to all of us.”

 

 

John nodded, lifted his glass to his mouth and drank, but the liquor had a coppery tang.  He spat the liquid out, and noticed that whatever was inside his cup was tinged red.  When he looked around, he realized he was not the only one affected.

 

 

“That tasted like…” Mycroft started.

 

 

“Blood.” John finished for him.  The fountain in the center of the bar was filled with a red liquid, and John was sure he knew what it tasted like.

 

 

“And the rivers and waters of Egypt ran red, and were as blood.”  Mycroft recited.  

 

 

John realized that must mean the creature was there.  It had been focused on Sherlock before, so there was a chance it would go after him again. He ran out of the bar in search of him.

 

 

 

\-----

 

 

 

Sherlock strode across the courtyard, his nose buried in a book while he cradled more at his chest.  He was still irritated over John’s reaction earlier in his room.  He had thought John would rise to action.  He had also hoped that he might have been enough to keep the man from leaving… apparently not.

 

 

When John had accused Sherlock of asking him to go back to war, he had not been wrong. That was exactly what he was doing. He should have said something biting or clever.  He knew why John had bolted. He had let his pity show and John could not stand it.  John was a man of honor and pride; he did not deserve, or need, pity.  He needed a swift kick in the arse to get him motivated… or maybe a kiss would do better.

 

 

A loud blast of thunder sounded in the distance, making Sherlock grumble.  Just what he needed– bad weather.

 

 

“Sherlock! Oi, Sherlock!” John called out across the courtyard.

 

 

Sherlock turned around to look at him, a smug smile spread across his face.  “You couldn’t keep away.  I knew it.”  He spoke as if the thought did not make his heart start beating faster.

 

 

John ran towards him, stopping in front of him.  He gave Sherlock an annoyed smiled as he came close.  “We have problems.”

 

 

Thunder sounded again, but much closer this time, accompanied by streaks of lightning. Clouds darkened the courtyard as flaming meteorites rained down from the sky.   Without a word, John grabbed Sherlock by the arm and pulled him under cover.  A meteorite hit the courtyard, lighting the garden on fire.  They stood, pressed against each other, surrounded by people screaming, floor crumbling and buildings falling apart.

 

 

John led Sherlock to a set of stairs, but as they started upwards, they saw Anderson descending. When he saw them, he tried to run away, but John grabbed hold of him by the collar of his shirt and slammed him against the wall.

 

 

“Anderson, you piranha, where have you been?”  John spat at him.

 

 

Sherlock got the feeling that Anderson surviving against all odds was nothing new, and it was often possible because he sold people out.  A monstrous cry from up the stairs distracted John for long enough that Anderson could push him off and run away.

 

 

Instead of giving chase, he pulled one of his pistols out of its holders and took Sherlock by the hand before rushing up the stairs.

 

 

They stayed close to each other as they crept into the second-floor drawing room.  Sherlock saw it first, Mr. Burns sitting dead in a chair, shriveled up as if he had been dead for centuries.

 

 

He nudged John, who nodded but kept his eyes on the fireplace, where the Mummy was standing. It seemed to be regenerating, growing new skin.  It turned to look at them as its face grew a new layer of flesh.

 

 

“We are in serious trouble.” John mumbled as he raised his gun. 

 

 

He fired several times, but the creature charged at him as if he could not feel it. Then, he struck John, tossing him across the room into Mycroft and the two other Americans who had just entered. It turned its attention to Sherlock, who backed away right into a bookshelf, jarring almost all the books out of it.

 

 

“You saved me from the undead.  I thank you.” The creature said to him with a guttural voice, and started leaning closer to his face.

 

 

Sherlock was trying to think of something he could do to protect himself from the Mummy when the fort’s cat leapt onto the piano near him and hissed at the creature.

 

 

The creature backed away from the cat in fear, and then transformed into a cloud of sand which over the balcony.

 

 

“You’re right John. We are in very serious trouble.” Sherlock said, falling to his knees.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock entered John’s room without knocking, throwing the door open dramatically as he looked around.

 

 

John was standing by his bed, shirtless, looking shocked and a little horrified. On his upper body, Sherlock saw an array of scars, including a bullet wound in his left shoulder. John reached for the shirt on the bed, but Sherlock rushed over to him and stopped him.

 

 

“Let me see.” Sherlock whispered, taking John’s wrists in both hands.

 

 

John glared at him, but relented.  He relaxed his body and let Sherlock’s eyes explore him.

 

 

“It’s disgusting.” John muttered, looking the other way.

 

 

“No. No, it really isn’t.” Sherlock raised a hand and touched the edge of the bullet wound.  John froze and looked up at him.  “That’s why you’ve been in so much pain.  It didn’t heal properly.”

 

 

John nodded.

 

 

Sherlock leaned down and kissed the scar.  John’s eyes shuttered.

 

 

“John, I can’t walk away from this problem, but I would feel much better if you stayed here with me and helped.”

 

 

John opened his eyes and smiled.  “When did I ever say I wasn’t sticking around?”

 

 

Sherlock smiled, leaned in and kissed him.  He lightly pressed his lips to John’s until he felt John kiss him back, then he pressed down firmer. John moaned, opening his mouth. Sherlock reached around him, placing his hands on the small of John’s back before slowly pushing his tongue into John’s mouth.

 

 

John’s hands grabbed his upper arms and pulled Sherlock harder against him, opening his mouth wider to let him have deeper access to it.  Sherlock groaned, kissing John harder.  They stayed like that for a while.  Then Sherlock’s hand slowly shifted down to John’s arse, making the man shudder.

 

 

“Alright?” Sherlock asked, barely removing his mouth from John’s.

 

 

“Yes.” John mumbled.  “I want that.”  He suddenly looked shy.  “If you do.”

 

 

Sherlock smiled back at him, squeezing his arse with both hands.  “I want it too.”  He leaned in and kissed John again, delighting in the feeling of fingers carding through his black curls.

 

 

“Get a move on, gentlemen; I don’t know how long I can hold these Americans.”

 

 

John and Sherlock pulled apart as Mycroft pushed into the room.  Sherlock kept his arms around John, but he splayed them across the small of his back, shielding John’s scars from Mycroft’s eyes.

 

 

He looked at them, one hand on the doorknob and the other swinging his umbrella.  “I’ll…wait for you two out here.”  He gave them a tense stare.

 

 

“He’s going to kill me.” John gasped when Mycroft was out of the room.

 

 

“No.” Sherlock kissed John’s neck. “He isn’t.”

 

 

John looked at him, confusion furrowing his brows.

 

 

Sherlock reached for John’s shirt and handed it to him.  He took it and started to dress.

 

 

“Mycroft has always worried I would end up alone because of my ‘preferences’.” Sherlock handed John his holster next. “I think he’s worried that I would never trust anyone enough to tell them how I felt.”

 

 

John nodded, picking up his guns and putting them in their slots.

 

 

“He likes you.” John looked at him as if he did not believe him at all.  “He likes the way you treat me.”

 

 

John nodded again. “So I only have to worry about the undead creature that keeps tossing me against things?” He smiled.

 

 

“There’s a man I think will be able to help us.”

 

 

John looked interested.

 

 

“He’s my boss at the Museum.”  He dreaded the idea of having to explain to his boss what he had done.

 

 

Sherlock wanted John. Not just sexually (because yes, he had an overpowering need to be inside the man) but he also wanted to have John as his own, to understand his mind, to know his secrets. He wanted John in every way possible. It made him want to protect him. As much as he waned John by his side in this battle, he also wanted him stowed away some place safe.

 

 

 

\-----

 

 

 

They went to the Museum with the two Americans who were still at the hotel, the Egyptologists having fled as soon as they had reached Cairo. 

 

 

Besides a curt nod, Mycroft had completely ignored John, which had been fine by him.  He was not sure he wanted to get into a conversation about his non-relationship with Sherlock when he should be thinking about other things.

 

 

Sherlock led them through several exhibits, rounding a corner into a large open room.

 

 

“You!” Sherlock yelled

 

 

John hurried up and saw the man who had attacked their camp back at the desert talking with an older man in a fez, who he guessed was the curator.  He drew his gun and heard several others’ guns click behind him.

 

 

“Mr. Holmes, gentlemen.” The man in the fez said, calmly nodding to Sherlock.

 

 

“What is he doing here?” Sherlock asked, jutting his chin out and sounding annoyed.

 

 

“Do you really want to know? Or would you prefer to just shoot us?” The curator said, sounding smug.

 

 

John knew he would have to set the example.  As much as he hated to do it, he  re-holstered his gun.  “After what I just saw, I’m willing to go on a little faith here.”

 

 

They all sat down then, except for Sherlock who remained standing.  John wanted to ask him to sit, to stay where he could get to him easily in case something went wrong, but he knew treating Sherlock like a child was the easiest was to piss him off.

 

 

“We are part of an ancient secret society, the Medjai, and we have a sacred mission, passed down through thirty-nine generations.”  The curator paused and glared at Sherlock.  “For over four thousand years we have guarded The City of The Dead. We are sworn at adulthood to do any and all in our power to stop High Priest Imhotep from being reborn into this world.”  He grew increasingly angrier as he spoke.

 

 

“And because of _you_ , we have failed.” The man in black finished for him.

 

 

“You think this justifies killing innocent people?!”  Sherlock said, appalled.

 

 

John saw that Mycroft was less shocked than his younger brother was.

 

 

“To stop this creature?” The curator looked at Sherlock as if he was young and naive.  “Yes.”

 

 

“Why doesn’t he like cats?” John could have asked Sherlock later, but he wanted to change the subject.  Sherlock was looking upset and had taken to pacing behind his chair.

 

 

“Cats are the guardians of the underworld.  He will fear them until he is fully regenerated.”  The curator shrugged.

 

 

“Then he will fear nothing.” The curator’s friend cut in.

 

 

“And ya know how he gets fully regenerated?”  Daniels said, his voice squeaking as he spoke.

 

“By killing everyone who opened that chest and sucking us dry, that’s how!”  Henderson said, glaring at the ground.

 

 

“Mycroft, stop playing!” Sherlock scolded.

 

 

John looked up and saw Mycroft putting a weapon down with an expression akin to that of a child being put on timeout.  Sherlock stopped behind John’s chair and placed his hands on the back.  John sat up straighter, waiting in case Sherlock needed something of him.

 

 

“When I saw him alive at Hamunaptra, he called me Anck-Su-Namun.”

 

 

John watched as the Curator and his friend shared a look.

 

 

“And then in the Hotel he tried to kiss me.”

 

 

“It was for his love for Anck-Su-Namun that he was cursed.  Even after four thousand years, he’s still in love with him.”

 

 

“While that’s very romantic and everything, what does it have to do with _me_?” Sherlock asked, sounding annoyed and slightly bored.

 

 

“Perhaps he will once again try to raise him from the dead?”  The man in black asked.

 

 

“Yes. And it appears he’s already chosen his human sacrifice.”  The curator said calmly.

 

 

“Bad luck, old boy.” Mycroft said in an equally calm voice.

 

 

John stood up, causing everyone to look at him.  He clenched his first and glared at the men, daring one of them to make a move.

 

 

“On the contrary.” The curator stepped closer, his hands up in sign of peace.  “It may just give us the time we need to kill the creature.”

 

 

“We will need all the help we can get.” Said the other.

 

 

John looked away from the curator and turned to look at Sherlock. He was looking up into the sky, where an impossibly fast full eclipse was happening.

 

 

“His powers are growing.” Muttered the man as the sky darkened.

 

 

“And he stretched forth his hands towards the heavens, and there was darkness throughout the land of Egypt.” Mycroft recited, his voice impassive.

 

 

 

\-----

 

 

 

John stood by a window watching a pair of guards pace back and forth on the wall-walk surrounding the Fort. It would not be enough if a real fight came to them… but then again, nothing would really be enough if the creature came.

 

 

The rest of the party was behind him.  He could hear Sherlock pacing back and forth, his shoes clipping on the title floor with every step.

 

 

“We have to stop him from regenerating.”  He said, his footsteps stopping.  “Who opened the chest?”

 

 

“There was me and Daniels here, and then poor Burns of course. Oh, and that Egyptologist fella.” Henderson said.

 

 

“What about Anderson?” John said, turning to look at the group.

 

 

“Naw, he scrammed outta there before we opened the damn thing.”  Daniels muttered.

 

 

“He was the smart one.” Said Henderson with a smirk.

 

 

“That sounds like Anderson.” John tried not to let the acid leak into his tone.

 

 

“We must find the Egyptologist and bring him back here to the safety of the fort, before the creature can get him.” Sherlock nodded at his plan.

 

 

“Okay,” John regarded the motley group and made up his mind.  “Sherlock, you stay here; you two, come with me.”  John pointed to the two Americans and turned to leave.

 

 

As soon as he turned his back, the room erupted in chatter.  The Americans didn’t want to go, Sherlock didn’t want to be left behind, and Mycroft didn’t like not being given a job.

 

 

John took a deep breath to calm himself before turning back around.  He walked right up to Sherlock, hooked his arm around his waist and guided him backwards into the bedroom behind him.

 

 

When the door shut, they both started at each other.  John could tell Sherlock was ready to argue, but there was no time. He reached out and slid his hand into Sherlock’s hair. 

 

 

Sherlock pressed into his touch and then leaned his face close to John’s.  They kissed for a while, clutching at each other and letting all the anger and frustration out.  When their lips parted, they pressed their foreheads together.

 

 

“I need you safe.” John whispered, his eyes closed.

 

 

Sherlock started to pull away.

 

 

“No, wait, listen.” John opened his eyes to look at him, and then continued.  “The one time you used a rifle you ended up on your back.”

 

 

Sherlock nodded.

 

 

“You can’t fire a pistol, and your hand-to-hand combat is only so-so.”

 

 

Sherlock sighed and stared at the floor beneath them.

 

 

“I need you to stay here and think of a solution.  That is your strong suit. You’re the smart one, I’m the shooting one.”

 

 

“You don’t give yourself enough credit, John. You’re not as unintelligent as you think.”

 

 

“Thanks.” John half-smiled.

 

 

He let Sherlock go and moved towards the door.

 

 

“If I let you go, you have to promise to teach me how to defend myself properly so you can’t leave me behind again.”

 

 

John nodded. “Promise.”

 

 

Sherlock cornered John against the door and kissed him again.  While Sherlock was distracted, John took the key from its hole in the door. They ended their kiss and John slipped out, locking the door behind him.

 

 

“John!” Sherlock bellowed, slamming his fist against the door.

 

 

“I need to make sure you don’t try to follow me!”  He tossed the key to one of the Americans.  Then got right in the face of the other, and pointed at him with his finger. “This door doesn’t open. No one goes in, and he does not come out.  Right?”

 

 

“Right,” both of them said.

 

 

John started heading for the door.

 

“C’mon, Mycroft.”

 

 

“Me?” Mycroft replied faintly.

 

 

John huffed a sigh and turned to glare at Mycroft who quickly pushed himself to standing and followed John out the door.

 

 

\-----

 

 

 

As John and Mycroft made their way up the stairs to the Egyptologist’s office, they heard a series of crashes.  As they got closer, John heard someone talking to himself. He would recognize that voice anywhere. John walked into the office casually, knowing that it would disturb the person inside more than anything else would.

 

 

“Well, well, well, let me guess, spring cleaning?”  John asked, giving a threatening smile.

 

 

Anderson dropped the drawer he had been emptying onto the floor and made a run for the window. John picked up a wicker chair near the entrance and hurled it at Anderson’s legs, making him trip.  He crumpled into a heap on the floor.  John moved quickly and took hold of him so he could not get back up and run to the window again.

 

 

“Nice shot.” Mycroft beamed at him, finally make it fully into the room.

 

 

John pulled Anderson up by the collar of his shirt and held him above the floor.  “You came back from the desert with a new friend, didn’t you, Anderson?”

 

 

“What friend? You’re my only friend.” He answered nervously.

 

 

John slammed his back against the wall.  “What the hell are you doing, being buddies with that creep, Anderson?  What’s in it for you?”

 

 

“It is better to be in the right hand of the Devil than in his path.  As long as I serve him, I am immune.”

 

 

“Immune to _what_?” John spat at him.

 

 

“You shall see.” He smiled wickedly.

 

 

“What are you looking for? And _try_ not to lie to me.” John shoved his arm over Anderson’s throat in a threat to cut off his oxygen.

 

 

“The book! The black book they found at Hamunaptra!  Imhotep wants it back. Said to me it would be worth its weight in gold!”

 

 

“What does he want the book for?”

 

 

“Something about bringing his dead boyfriend back to life.  He needs the book.” Anderson turned his head to look at Mycroft. “And your brother.”

 

 

John also turned to look at him.  Had he been an idiot to leave Sherlock back at the fort?  Should he have brought him along?

 

 

Anderson seized the moment to knee John in the crotch.  John doubled over in pain while Anderson jumped out of the window. 

 

 

A few seconds later, they heard screams from the square below and both ran to the window. On the street was a cloaked figure standing over the shriveled corpse of the Egyptologist.  The cloaked figure turned to look up at them, revealing that it was holding the black book and a sacred canopic jar.

 

 

The creature opened its month as if to scream, but, instead, a swarm of flies came out, heading right towards John and Mycroft.  They shut the window and leaned against it, using the weight of their bodies to keep it shut. They could hear people screaming in the distance.

 

 

“That’s two down, only two to go.”  John muttered.

 

 

“Then he’ll be coming after Sherl…” Mycroft’s voice shook as he spoke.

 

 

\-----

 

 

Sherlock lay asleep in bed, still wearing his day clothing, his room locked.  He had fought to stay awake for too many nights and had finally succumbed to sleep for a few hours, or, at least, until John returned. The other side of the bed was covered in books that he had been using for research.

 

 

He did not notice the sand steaming in through the keyhole, nor how it pooled on the floor and then formed into a large mound.

 

 

Sherlock was woken by a pair of lips on his, kissing him.  He opened his eyes, thinking that it could be John, but, instead, he found himself staring up at the creature, which looked almost completely recovered. ‘How many people had died since he’d fallen asleep?’ The thought flashed through Sherlock’s mind. ‘The two Americans who had been watching the room?  John and Mycroft?’

 

 

The creature kept pressing its lips to his, which was disgusting and unwanted.  Sherlock pulled back his right arm as far as he could, and punched the creature in the face.  The creature reared back, its face returning to the hideous thing it had been before; it glared at Sherlock.

 

 

The door slammed open, and John and Mycroft stormed in.

 

 

“Get the hell away from him!” John yelled at the creature.

 

 

Sherlock scrambled over the books on the side of the bed, and slid down to the floor. The creature started to advance towards John, who just smiled and held up the fort’s cat.

 

 

“Look what I’ve got!”

 

 

The creature screamed in fear and backed away from him, then turned into a whirlwind of sand and exploded out the window. When the sand had cleared, John and Sherlock looked at each other.

 

 

“You alright?” John asked, eyes locked to Sherlock’s.

 

 

“Well, I’m not sure.” Mycroft said.

 

 

Sherlock watched John turn to regard Mycroft before deciding that it was not worth correcting him.

 

 

\-----

 

 

They ended up back at the museum, because none of Sherlock’s books had the information he needed. The curator and his friend, Ardeth Ray, were not necessarily happy to see them, but were excited to hear that Sherlock was close to having a plan.

 

 

They all headed up the main stairs to the place Sherlock knew held a series of stone cuttings with the information he needed.

 

 

“According to the legend, the black book the Americans found at Hamunaptra is supposed to bring people back from the dead.  Until now, it was a notion I was unwilling to believe.”  Sherlock said, buzzing with the idea of solving a puzzle.

 

 

“Well, believe it mister. That’s what brought the monster back to life.”  John said in an uncomfortably monotone voice.  He was looking at the ground in front of himself as he walked.

 

 

“Yes, and I’m thinking that if the black book can bring people to life…” Sherlock started, only to be cut off by John.

 

 

“Then the gold book can kill him.”  John nodded.

 

 

“That’s the myth.” Sherlock reached out and touched John’s arm gently.  He saw him shudder at the touch, but John did not turn to look at him.  “Now we just have to find out where the gold book is hidden.” John suddenly came to a halt and stared off into the opposite direction. Sherlock looked at him, and was about to ask him what was wrong when he heard it: a loud repeated chanting.

 

 

“Imhotep!”

 

 

They went to a window and looked out, only to see a large group of seemingly mindless people shambling towards the museum.

 

 

“Last, but not least, my favorite plague: boils and sores.”   Mycroft mocked.

 

 

“They have become his slaves…so it has begun:  the beginning of the end.”  Ardeth Ray added.

 

 

\-----

 

 

Sherlock ignored the banging on the doors and kept himself focused on reading the stone slab. He had taken the top half while the curator read the bottom, hoping that one of them would find what they were looking for.

 

 

“According to the Bembridge Scholars, the golden book of Amun-Ra is located in the statue of Anubis.”

 

 

“That’s where we found the black book.”  Daniels said, sounding tired.

 

 

“Exactly. “ Sherlock said his voice bouncing with energy.

 

 

“Looks like the old boys at Bembridge were mistaken.”  Mycroft said smugly.

 

 

“Yes, they mixed the books up.  Mixed up where the books were buried.”  Sherlock started moving his hands as if he were conducting an orchestra.  “So, if the black book is in the statue of Anubis, then the golden book must be inside-”

 

 

Downstairs, the front door burst open and a horde of people spilled in.

 

 

“Come on Sherl, faster!” Mycroft implored.

 

 

“Patience is a virtue.” Sherlock singsonged back.

 

 

“Not right now it isn’t!” Daniels squeaked.

 

 

“I’ll go get the car started.”  Mycroft muttered. Sherlock thought he heard footsteps leading away.

 

 

“I’ve got it! The book of Amun-Ra is at Hamunaptra inside the statue of Horus.  Take that, Bembridge Scholars!”  Sherlock cheered, feeling very proud of himself.

 

 

It was then that he saw John, who looked pale and queasy.  He remembered John’s comment the day before about forcing him to go back to war. John was looking down at the horde of people with regret.  Whatever had happened to John the last time he had been in battle had scarred him, and Sherlock was asking him to reopen those wounds.

 

 

“We should go,” John said, looking at the people below.

 

 

“There’s a back way. Follow me.”  The curator led them through the building with little trouble until they got outside. There, people were milling about, looking for them. As soon as they were spotted, they took off at a run.   They ran for the car and piled in.  It was a tighter fit this time, with two more people, but they made it work.

 

 

As they were driving off, Anderson stopped them and started shouting.  “Imhotep!  Imhotep!”

 

 

“You’re going to get yours, Anderson!”  John yelled, standing in the car to shout back at him.  “You’re going to get yours!”

 

 

Sherlock reached for John and pulled him into his seat.  When he got hold of him, he found John was shaking, and placed an arm around his shoulders.  John did not protest and he let Sherlock position him how he wanted.

 

 

They raced through empty streets, but all Sherlock cared about was figuring out how to calm John down. It was not fear that seemed to be bothering him, but a mixture of anger and frustration.

 

 

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock murmured, looking down.

 

 

“About what?” John muttered back.

 

 

“Getting you involved.”

 

 

John looked at him and sighed.  “I’d rather be here with you then have you be off doing this without me.”

 

 

The car suddenly slammed to a stop and Sherlock looked out over the top.  There was a group of people standing in the road.

 

 

Sherlock stomped his foot over Mycroft’s on the gas pedal, forcing him to drive forward. The crowd ran at the car as they drove at them. They hit them, knocking them to the side as they drove through them.  Sherlock watched John shoving off those who tried to hold on.

 

 

“Damn it!” John yelled

 

 

“What?” Sherlock asked, taking hold of his shirt.

 

 

“They got Daniels!”

 

 

Everyone but Mycroft looked at the empty spot in the car.  So, the creature had everything he needed, except for Sherlock.

 

 

The next second, the car crashed.  Sherlock looked around, and realized they had been chased until they hit a street stall. They all got out of the car and tried to figure out what to do next, but the horde was upon them, cornering them until there was nowhere left to go.

 

 

John stood out in front of them with a torch in his hands, Sherlock right behind him, his hands holding John’s sides.  He watched how the group that was chasing them just seconds before were now standing still, as if waiting for orders.  A few minutes passed, and then they parted and the creature entered, followed by Anderson. It was clear he had finished regenerating.

 

 

“Koontashi dai na.” The creature said.

 

 

“Come with me, my prince. It is time to make you mine, forever.” Anderson translated.

 

 

“For all eternity, you idiot.”  Sherlock shot back. As if he needed an interpreter.

 

 

The creature spoke again and Sherlock held his breath.

 

 

“Take my hand and I will spare your friends.”

 

 

Sherlock squeezed John’s sides and leaned in to whisper in his ear.  “Do you have any bright ideas?”

 

 

Sherlock felt John tense under his hands. 

 

 

“I’m thinking, I’m thinking…”

 

 

“Well think _faster_ , because if he turns me into a mummy you’re the first one I’m coming after.”  Sherlock pressed a kiss to John shoulder, then skirted around him.

 

 

“No!” John called after him, pulling his pistol out.

 

 

“Don’t.” Sherlock said firmly.  “He still has to take me back to Hamunaptra to perform the ritual.”

 

 

“He’s right. Live today, fight tomorrow.”  Ardeth Ray put his hand over John’s and got him to slowly lower his arm.

 

 

As soon as the creature tried to walk off with Sherlock, he heard John calling after him.

 

 

Then the creature yelled out, “Kill them all.”

 

 

Sherlock knew he should not have trusted it, but he had hoped.  He struggled against the creature, calling back to John and Mycroft.

 

 

\-----

 

 

It was just after dawn by the time they made it to the old Royal Air Corp airfield. John hoped that Winston was willing, and sober, enough for the job they needed him for.  He had fought in World War I, and survived, unlike everyone else in his platoon.  Lately, he spent most of his time talking about the war, telling people how good his friends had it, going down as they had, and how much he wished he could go down in a blaze of glory.  So maybe the no-win scenario was right up his ally.

 

 

John, Mycroft, and Ardeth Ray found Winston sitting on a dune, drinking tea while listening to music on his gramophone.

 

 

“Morning, Winston. Got a minute?”  John called.

 

 

“So, what’s you little problem got to do with His Majesty’s Royal Air Corp?”

 

 

John smiled. “Not a dammed thing.”

 

 

Winston put down his tea and looked intrigued.  “It is dangerous?”

 

 

“You probably won’t live though it.”  John deadpanned.

 

 

Winston smiled. “By Jove, do you really think so?”

 

 

“Everyone else we’ve bumped into has died, why not you?”  Mycroft shrugged.

 

 

“What’s the challenge then?”

 

 

“Save his brother,” John pointed to Mycroft.   “Kill the bad guy and steal his treasure.”

 

 

Winston chuckled, and then looked around at them all.  “Winston Havelock at your service, Sir!”

 

 

He saluted John who returned the gesture, more for him than anything.

 

 

After they had the plane ready, they made good time across the desert.  Winston was an ace pilot.  John was given the other seat in the plane and control of the gun. Mycroft and Ardeth Ray were strapped on to the wings.  Ardeth Ray seemed to be enjoying himself, but Mycroft looked on the verge of killing someone.

 

 

Out of nowhere, a sandstorm started moving alongside them.

 

 

“See that? I’ve never seen one so big!”  Winston yelled as he tried to pull the plane away from the storm; it followed them.

 

 

‘Of course you haven’t,’ John thought.  ‘This one wasn’t made naturally.’

 

 

The storm disappeared for a few minutes, but then, when it came back, it was like a wave, chasing them.

 

 

“A little faster, Winston!” John yelled over his shoulder at the older man.

 

 

“Hang on, men!” Winston bellowed.

 

 

The plane suddenly tipped into a dive.  It rose back up just before it hit the ground, the wave of sand hot on their heels. John saw a face appear in the sand, as if to mock him.  He wanted to shoot, but he knew it would do nothing.  The mouth opened up, the jaw unhinged and swallowed them.  They were caught in the sandstorm, the plane totally out of control.

 

 

“Here I come, laddies!” Winston yelled before he started laughing.

 

 

John did his best to brace for impact.

 

 

The plane smashed over a dune, then flipped over and crashed upside-down into another dune. Sand swirled around John as he fell out of the gunner’s seat.  He rolled his left shoulder to check for damage, but found it was only sore.

 

 

“Excuse me…. a little help would be useful… if it’s not too much trouble!”  Mycroft ground out from his spot upside down, still attached to a wing.

 

 

“Alright, alright, I’m coming.”  John went to Mycroft and cut him out.

 

 

Then he went to check on everyone else.  He saw Ardeth Ray searching the plane for usable parts… that left just one person. “Winston… hey, Winston!”

 

 

John found Winston still inside the plane, sitting in his seat with a smile on his face. He reached for his pulse and did not find one.

 

 

“Well?” Mycroft asked from behind him.

 

 

“He got what he wanted…” John said in a flat voice.

 

 

The plane suddenly started to move.

 

 

“Quick sand!” Ardeth Ray yelled to them.

 

 

Mycroft grabbed John by the back of his shirt and pulled him back.  They all grabbed the gear they had near to hand and ran a safe distance away. They turned to watch as the plane disappeared beneath the sand.  John saluted the disappearing plane as it pulled Winston’s body down into the sand, then headed towards Hamunaptra.

 

 

\-----

 

 

Sherlock followed the creature into the underground cemetery.  He stopped to get a look around, in case he needed to make a run for it, but was shoved forward by Anderson, who was walking behind him. Sherlock turned and glared at him.

 

 

“You know, nasty little fellows such as yourself always get their comeuppance.”  Sherlock smiled at the end.  Not a pleasant smile, but one telling of horrible things to come. Anderson laughed for a second, but as Sherlock’s smile got worse, he started to look worried.

 

 

“Really?” He asked, jokingly. Then he leaned in and continued in a serious tone.  “They do?”

 

 

“Oh yes. Always.” Sherlock turned away, let his face fall neutral, and kept walking.

 

 

\-----

 

 

John and Ardeth Ray dug their way through a tunnel as fast as they could while Mycroft stood behind them, telling them how they could do a better job.  John had already given him one withering look, but that had not seemed to work.  So, he stood up straight and gave him a death glare.  He may have had to look up to do it, but Mycroft got the idea; his mouth snapped shut.

 

 

John had not realized how quiet and Mycroft-free they had been, until he heard screams behind him. He turned and saw Mycroft holding his arm out.

 

 

“What?” John yelled.

 

 

Mycroft turned the back of his arm towards him, showing what looked like a small mound moving under the skin.

 

 

“Oh”

 

 

John looked at Ardeth Ray. “Hold him.”

 

 

Ardeth Ray nodded and took hold of Mycroft from behind.  John pulled out a knife and cut a small slit in the skin to free whatever was underneath.   John was not expecting a scarab to fly out.  It hit the sand and came running back over to them.  John pulled out one of his pistols and shot it.

 

 

\-----

 

 

John squeezed through a small crevice in a wall after tossing his gunnysack and torch into the room first.  He dropped to the floor of the dark chamber, gathered his things, scanned the room, and waited for the others.

 

 

The first thing he noticed was a shaft of light coming from a small hole in the ceiling high above him. The light was almost hitting a mirror like the set Sherlock had shown them on their first day. He pulled out his gun and shot at the edge of the mirror.  The chamber filled with light, revealing an enormous treasure chamber.

 

 

“Can you see it?” Mycroft breathed.

 

 

“Ya.” John said, heading straight through the room.

 

 

“Can you believe it-” Gasped Mycroft.  “Can we just-”

 

 

“No, and no touching. Last time you touched something it tried to kill you.”  John tried to glare at Mycroft but he could not even get his attention.

 

 

A clattering sound behind them caught their attention.  They turned just as three mummies broke through the sand and started crawling their way out of the ground.

 

 

“Who the hell are these guys?”  John asked.

 

 

“Imhotep’s priests.” Ardeth Ray said, sounding shocked.

 

 

“Right.” John nodded and they all opened fire as more mummies crawled out of the same spot behind the first ones.

 

 

Ardeth Ray and John did most of work.  He had to give Mycroft credit for enthusiasm, but that was it.  They took down four or five of them, but there were more coming and they needed to reload.  Running was in order. Hopefully, they could find a spot to collapse the tunnel behind them.

 

 

\-----

 

 

Sherlock woke lying down on a table, his wrists and ankles manacled.  The last thing he remembered was a rude remark by that idiot, Anderson, and a sharp pain on the back of his skull. So a coward _and_ an idiot.  He toyed with his restraints for a bit, but he was not familiar with them enough to be able to get out of them.  He decided to get his bearings instead.  On his right, were the canopic jars the Americans had had.  On his left, was a mummified body.  The body was male, so it was most likely Anck-Su-Namun.

 

 

Silence pressed in around him.  So, the creature must have been off somewhere preparing, and Anderson had disappeared.  John had been right; he needed to get better at defending himself.

 

 

\-----

 

 

They had made it back into the labyrinth of tunnels.  Mycroft lead the way because he had memorized the map and he was a bloody awful shot.  Ardeth Ray and John used gun after gun in their arsenal to keep the mummies away, but they would not go down.

 

 

“Here he is!” Mycroft shouted from ahead of them. “Hello Horus, old boy!”

 

 

John and Ardeth Ray made it into the chamber.  John handed Ardeth Ray his gun, and then lit a stick of dynamite and tossed it into the tunnel they had just come through.  They all hid behind the statue of Horus during the explosion.

 

 

\-----

 

 

A group of mummies emerged from the shadows and formed a circle around the table Sherlock was laying on, and bowed down to it.  The creature appeared with the black book and set it on the side of the mummified corpse.

 

 

When the creature looked at him, Sherlock gave him a look of bored disdain.  The creature then turned its eyes to the corpse next to Sherlock. He reached out a hand and caressed its face.

 

 

“Anck-Su-Namun” the creature whispered.  Then, he put the key into the book and opened it.

 

 

‘Hurry up, John, I’m running out of time.’  Sherlock thought.

 

 

\-----

 

 

John and Mycroft struggled to free the book from its place inside the statue while Ardeth Ray reloaded the guns and kept an eye out.

 

 

John could hear them coming down a different tunnel, getting closer every second.  “These guys never stop, do they?” He asked no one in particular.

 

 

Ardeth Ray cocked his gun. “Keep digging.” And headed for the tunnel

 

 

They finally got the box, which held the book, free, and quickly opened it.  Sitting there was a book made of pure gold.

 

 

“The Book of Amun Ra.” Mycroft sighed.

 

 

John and he looked at each other over the book.  The sound of gunshots stopped.  John looked up at Ardeth Ray, who was walking into the tunnel right at the mummies.

 

 

“Save his brother! Kill the creature!”

 

 

John wasted no time gathering their things.  The man was being a martyr and he was not about to waste his sacrifice.  John found a stick of dynamite and lit it.

 

 

“What are you waiting for?” Ardeth Ray called to them.

 

John tossed the dynamite into the tunnel.  Then he shoved himself and Mycroft into a safe corner during the explosion.

 

 

“All right. Go!” John gripped Mycroft by the shoulder and pulled him through the burning tunnel.

 

 

\-----

 

 

The creature read from the book invoking something that looked like a shadow, which rose up from the pool nearby, floated in the air until it was right over the body of Anck-Su-Namun, and sunk into it.  The creature continued to chant and the corpse next to him took a breath.

 

 

It screeched, its hands flailing about.  A week ago, Sherlock would have said this was impossible, but, after what he had seen recently, he was ready to believe this was happening.  Even if the logical part of his brain told him it was unfeasible.

 

 

The corpse looked at him with empty eye sockets and Sherlock realized he was looking past him. He turned to his right to see the creature standing over him with a knife.

 

 

“With your death, Anck-Su-Namun shall live.  And I shall be invincible!”

 

 

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath. 

 

 

“I found it, Sherl! I found it!”  Mycroft bellowed down the stone staircase.

 

 

Sherlock looked up at him holding the golden book up in the air, as high as he could, as if he’d won a prize.  “Shut up and get me off here!”  Sherlock yelled back.

 

 

“The Book of Amun-Ra,” the creature sighed.

 

 

“Open the book, Mycroft. That is the only way to kill him. You have to find the inscription!” Sherlock called up to his bother.

 

 

“I can’t open it, it’s locked.”  Mycroft was quiet for a second and when he spoke again, he sounded excited.  “We need the key.”

 

 

“It’s inside his robes!” Sherlock watched as Mycroft disappeared, the creature slowly sauntering after him.

 

 

Sherlock had assumed himself abandoned when John, literally, jumped onto the scene, flying over the heads of the mummies surrounding him and cutting the chain holding Sherlock’s right wrist with a sword.

 

 

The mummies that had surrounded Sherlock until then had been very passive.  The second they saw John, they got to their feet and attacked him. They did not have much fighting skill, but they did not go down very easily.  John had to hack them to pieces to get them to stop assaulting him.

 

 

Sherlock tried to free himself from his chains with his free hand, but found the task impossible. Sherlock looked up from what he was doing as John took down the last one and stood sword over his shoulder looking around them for more danger.  Sherlock wanted to pin that man to a wall so badly when they got out of this.

 

 

John turned to look at Sherlock and smiled.  He lifted his sword and Sherlock moved his wrist in position when John suddenly fell to the ground.

 

 

“John!?” Sherlock yelled as he looked over the edge of the table.

 

 

Two mummies, who were nothing but torsos, had grabbed hold of John and were pinning him down as he tried to struggle against them.  A third mummy without a head was carrying over a heavy stone slab.  Sherlock thought they must have been planning to drop it on him.

 

 

Sherlock struggled with his wrist binding, but was unable to look away from what was happening to John. He watched as John’s expression brightened and he looked to John’s hand.  A lone mummy hand had just taken hold of John’s sword giving him the perfect extra length he needed to reach the weapon.   John grabbed the severed wrist and swung for the legs of the mummy holding the tablet.  The mummy toppled backwards, the heavy tablet keeping him pinned to the ground.

 

 

John shoved the two torsos off, dropped the hand, and freed Sherlock.  They clasped each other’s hands, and headed for the stairs when a stone door opened and ten mummified soldiers marched out.

 

 

‘What has Mycroft done now?’ Sherlock wondered.

 

 

John stepped in front of Sherlock and took on a defensive position.  ‘This just keeps getting better and better.”  He muttered.

 

 

Sherlock placed a hand on John’s arm and the two of them slowly started backing up. “Do something Mycroft!”

 

 

“Me?” Mycroft squeaked from a distance.

 

 

“You can command them.” Sherlock bit out.

 

 

“You have got to be joking!” Mycroft laughed incredulously.

 

 

“Finish the inscription on the cover you idiot, and then you can control them!” Sherlock shouted, more than a little annoyed.

 

 

Sherlock and John kept steadily making their way backwards, when he felt a hand dig into his curls and yank back his head.   Sherlock looked around and saw Anck-Su-Namun behind him trying to claw his eyes out.

 

 

Sherlock back away from the corpse and away from John, who went to follow, but a moment later, he had the mummified solders on him.

 

 

Sherlock heard John do his intimidation yell, which seemed to backfire when three of them yelled back right in his face.  After that, Sherlock didn’t have any time to think about John.

 

 

He was running between pillars and sarcophagi trying to avoid the dagger-wielding corpse.  At that point, all he could do was bide his time and hope that Mycroft figured out the translation.

 

 

“I can’t figure out this last symbol.”  Mycroft called to him.

 

 

“What does it look like?” Sherlock dodged around another pillar and right into Anck-Su-Namun, who grabbed him by the throat.

 

 

“It’s a… a bird, a stork!” Mycroft gleefully exclaimed.

 

 

Anck-Su-Namun pushed Sherlock back against a wall holding him by the throat.  Sherlock tried to keep hold of the hand holding the knife. While trying to talk.

 

 

“Ah! Ah! Ahmenophus!” Sherlock shouted finally pulling enough air in to speak.

 

 

“Oh, yes I see.” Mycroft chuckled.

 

 

Anck-Su-Namun tossed Sherlock to the side, clearly not happy with how the fighting was going. Sherlock got a glimpse through two pillars and saw John crawling on his back away from the soldiers. He looked bruised, bloody, and battered. Yet he still did not look like he had given in.

 

 

“Hootash im Ahmenophus!” Mycroft called out, a remnant of his old command returned in his voice.

 

 

The mummified soldiers stopped their attack on John, and stood waiting for orders.  John rolled away, getting as far from the armored corpses as possible.

 

 

The creature tried to give orders to the soldiers again, but they acted as if they were deaf to his call.  He yelled at them, getting angrier and angrier, but they did not move.

 

 

Sherlock’s moment of rest was interrupted by Anck-Su-Namun finding him and attacking him. The corpse seemed to be blindly stabbing at him now.  If it could feel anything, perhaps it was frustration.

 

 

“Fa-Kooshka Anck-Su-Namun!” Mycroft said in a voice that demanded you obey it.

 

 

Sherlock heard the creature call out to Anck-Su-Namun, but it was too late.  The soldiers had reached Anck-Su-Namun, and were ripping him apart.

 

 

The creature headed in the direction of Mycroft.

 

 

“Imhotep!” Cried Anck-Su-Namun.

 

 

The creature turned back to Anck-Su-Namun, but he was gone.

 

 

“Now you die.” The creature cornered Mycroft, who dropped the book.  The creature took him by the neck.

 

 

John came up behind and cut off the arm holding Mycroft.  The arm dropped, but no blood spilled. The creature grabbed John by the shirt and tossed him.  Then he picked up his arm and reattached it.

 

 

“Sherl! I got it!”  Mycroft proudly held up the key he had stolen.

 

 

Sherlock rushed over to Mycroft and took the key.  “Keep him busy.” He called over his shoulder to John while he opened the book.

 

 

All he got was a grunt of pain from John.

 

 

Mycroft held the book open while Sherlock looked for the passage he needed.

 

 

“Hurry Sherl, hurry!” Mycroft whined.

 

 

“You’re not helping.” Sherlock shot back.” Turning a page and scanning it to see if it had what he wanted.

 

 

The creature had John by the throat and was choking him.

 

 

“Found it,” Sherlock breathed.  “Kadeesh mal. Kadeesh mal.  Pared oos.  Pared oos” He said proudly and full of enthusiasm.  Then he looked back at the creature.

 

 

The creature turned to look at him, fear filling his face.  He let go of John, who stumbled away as a phantom four-horse chariot came down the stone steps and drove directly towards the creature.

 

 

The creature screamed and threw his arms up over his face as the chariot drove right though him. For a moment, there seemed to be two of them, and then the chariot pulled one of them away.

 

 

While the creature was screaming after the chariot,  John found his way over to Sherlock and Mycroft.  Sherlock noticed that his injuries were worse than he had thought. It was pure tenacity and adrenaline keeping John upright.  John, ever the soldier, picked up his sword and stood in front of Sherlock and Mycroft, ready for battle.

 

 

“I thought you said it was going to kill him!”  John growled.

 

 

The creature walked right at them; when John lifted his sword, plunging it into him, he did not back away. Except this time, it seemed to hurt. The creature brought his hand up, amazed to find blood seeping from his wound.

 

 

“He’s mortal.” Sherlock said smugly.

 

 

John pulled the sword out and they watched the creature experience physical pain for the first time in four thousand years.  The creature walked into the pool, which seemed to be made of the same thing that had settled over Anck-Su-Namun’s body.  They watched him sink into the water, decay rapidly taking over, as he became a corpse once again.

 

 

He spoke in a gurgled voice at the end, but Sherlock was pretty sure he knew what he had said.

 

 

‘Death is only the beginning.’

 

 

Just when they thought they could take a moment to collect their breath, the grating sound of stone on stone brought their attention to the ceiling gradually closing in on them.

 

 

“Time to go!” John said, taking Sherlock by the hand.

 

 

The three of them ran as fast as they could out of the room.  Mycroft tripped and dropped the golden book into a pool of water and John was convinced Sherlock was about to dive in after it

 

 

“You’ve lost the book!” Sherlock pouted.

 

 

“Hurry!” John yelled as he and Mycroft went back for Sherlock.

 

 

They ran through several tunnels that were filling up with sand and made it into the treasure room. Sherlock and John ran right through it, but Mycroft stopped to look around.

 

 

The look Sherlock gave his brother said volumes about what he thought about Mycroft’s obsession with wealth.

 

 

“Couldn’t we just-“ Mycroft begged.

 

 

“No.” Sherlock said firmly.

 

 

The three of them headed for the exit, the ceiling coming down faster.  They were under a long stone slab when John heard a familiar voice calling out his name in a terrified whimper.

 

 

“Watson! Watson!” 

 

 

As much as he might despise Anderson, he still saw him as a fellow soldier and John was not the kind to leave a man behind to die.  After Sherlock, Mycroft, and he had got through a small doorway at the end of the lowering slab, John turned and held his hand out for Anderson.

 

 

“Watson, wait!” Anderson screamed.

 

 

“Come on, come on,” John beckoned him forward.

 

 

They reached for each other, but it was too late.  The door was shutting and John had to pull his arm back.  The last thing he saw was Anderson’s terrified eyes.

 

 

“Goodbye, Anderson.” He said sadly.

 

 

They made it out of the structure, but things were no better above.  The pillars were toppling due to their foundation crumbling underneath them. Everywhere they ran things seemed to be falling.  John was out of energy, so Sherlock dragged him along.  Mycroft was close behind them, his survival instinct keeping him alive against all odds.

 

 

As they ran, a crevice dropped out behind them and followed them.  It seemed to chase them as they made their way through the ruins. Sherlock spotted some camels headed away from the ruins and hoped they had good instincts before he started to follow them.

 

 

They kept running until they were far enough away that the sand flying through the air from the rubble was not bothering them.  Then they watched as The City of The Dead, sank beneath the sand, as if it had never been there.

 

 

Mycroft screamed, which started them all, and, while John was running on fumes, he still threw Sherlock behind him and pulled a knife out.  They looked up and saw Ardeth Ray sitting on a camel.

 

 

“Oh, thank you, thank you very much.”  Mycroft gasped.

 

 

Ardeth ray smiled. “You have earned the respect and the gratitude of me and my people.”

 

 

“Yes, well. It was nothing.” Mycroft tired to sound impressive, but he was too exhausted to manage it, which made Sherlock laugh.

 

 

Ardeth Ray nodded at them and made his way into the desert.

 

 

“Stay out of trouble.” John mumbled, putting his knife away.

 

 

“He’s just leaving us here.” Mycroft groaned. “Well, I guess we go home empty handed. Again.”

 

 

“I wouldn’t say that.” Sherlock smiled down at John, waiting for a response.

 

 

“Oh please.” Mycroft muttered.

 

 

John smiled at him, so Sherlock placed a hand on the small of his back.  They leaned into each other and kissed gently as if someone would swoop in at any moment and tell them they couldn’t.

 

 

Sherlock felt braver and placed a hand on John’s arm, mindful of any injuries.  He felt John place one hand on the nape of his neck and the other tightened in the front of his shirt.  The kiss got deeper, more passionate.  Sherlock could feel John trying to give it his all, but he was dead on his feet, so he broke the kiss.

 

 

“There’s always later, when my brother isn’t around.”  Sherlock whispered to him.

 

 

John smiled and pressed his face to Sherlock’s chest.

 

 

“Let’s get back to civilization so I can take care of your wounds.”

 

 

John nodded and looked up at Sherlock.  He could see how tired John was, how much the fighting had taken out of him physically and mentally. He leaned down, touched his forehead to John’s, and smiled.

 

 

Mycroft got on his camel, but it was clear John would fall off one if left on his own, so he rode with Sherlock; sitting in front, so he could lean back against Sherlock’s chest to sleep. They brought a third camel along in case John felt better after a nap, but Sherlock hoped he wanted to continue sharing.

 

 

Unknown to any of them, the camels they had picked to ride back to Cairo on had saddlebags full of treasure, which Anderson had carried up from vault.  So, they had not ended up so empty handed after all.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here is a short end chapter to round the story out. I felt like I had beat Sherlock and John up a bunch during the fic so I wanted to give them a sweet ending.

3 Months Later

 

**A River Boat On The Nile**

 

 

Sherlock stood on the veranda of his room just after dawn, a white bed sheet wrapped around his waist.   He looked out at the water of the Nile as the boat passed over it, the last of his cigarette burning up in his fingers. He took one final drag and looked back at his bed where John was sleeping.  Last night, they had trashed John’s room and had then slunk into Sherlock’s attached suite in the early hours to sleep. 

 

 

Sherlock had slept until the sun had woken him. He was not surprised that John was not yet up. He had exhausted the man. Besides, John was used to sleeping with the sun in his face; while Sherlock was pampered (John’s words, not his), John was not.

 

 

Sherlock flicked the butt of his cigarette over the side of the boat, closed the door to the veranda, and pulled the sheet off his hips, leaving it on the floor.  He crawled up the bed and lay next to John as carefully as possible so he didn’t wake him.

 

 

John was laying on his front, his arse half-exposed by a sheer-white sheet.  His face was pillowed on his arms, and he was breathing softly.  He looked calm and peaceful, which he normally did not. Sherlock knew a wrong move would wake him and ruin the moment. 

 

 

The bed moved despite Sherlock’s best efforts, jostling his nightstand and knocking two letters to the floor. He didn’t have to look at them to know what they said.  He’d read them both several times. 

 

 

The first was from the Bembridge Scholars congratulating him on his discovery, and asking him to come present his work. He’d written up his findings while John had been in hospital and sent it off with an Englishman who had been doing research at the Museum.  When he had gotten the letter, John had been so proud and had asked if he wanted to go back to London, but Sherlock had already had his heart set on the second dig he was planning.  He could make them wait a while longer.

 

 

The other letter was from Mycroft, telling him he had gotten to London all right.  After discovering they had carried a large fortune out of the desert with them, Mycroft had quickly split it three ways - though he had tried to split it two ways, seeing as John and Sherlock were together.  Sherlock did not care about his share, but he was not about to let Mycroft cheat John out of his hard-earned money.

 

 

While Sherlock was rushing John to a doctor, Mycroft had split the treasure and caught the first train headed north. Sherlock figured he’d buy his way back into politics once he had hit England.  The real question was how long his money would last him.  In a year or two, would his letters be asking for financial help?

 

 

Sherlock did not want to think about his brother or the Bembridge Scholars right now.  He was much too captivated by the naked man in his bed. Not too long ago, when he had watched John sleep, it had been with worry that he would not wake up again. Now, it was with excitement for what the day ahead had in store for them.

 

 

Three months ago, John had been near death by the time they had gotten him back to Cairo.  As soon as Mycroft had seen what was in their saddlebags, he had been no help. Sherlock had been on his own getting John to an English doctor, Mike Stamford.  It had taken over a mouth and a half for all of John’s wounds to heal, and another half-a-month for him to be steady on his feet again. Sherlock had watched angry red wounds close and become pink lines, then fade to white, adding to the tapestry of John’s scars.

 

 

He had gotten to know most of the stories behind each scar, whether John had told him, or he had to deduce it for himself.   He had gathered that John had lived a hard life with very little love. Sometimes, when John spoke about the past, there was so much pain in his voice that Sherlock wanted to make him stop, to help take it all away.  He had stopped asking questions, hoping he at least would not dredge up any more painful memories.

 

 

He slowly placed his hand on John’s back. Then, feeling braver, he began to trace the marks he found.  Some were the love bites and bruises from when he had taken John the night before, or from previous nights.

 

 

John shifted under his touch, and then slowly blinked open his eyes.

 

 

“Hello there.”  John smiled, arching his spine as he stretched the kinks from his muscles.

 

 

“Hello.”  Sherlock smiled back at him.  He leaned in and kissed John’s shoulder.

 

 

“Did you sleep at all, or is that too much to hope?” The hand closest to Sherlock stretched out towards him to lie across his hip.  John rolled onto his side, bringing himself closer to Sherlock.

 

 

“I got a few hours.  It was more than enough.”  Sherlock traced his fingers over John’s hip then slid them down to cup his arse.  “I think I’ll have you again before breakfast.”  He smirked at John.

 

 

“We’ve already destroyed one room.” John chuckled as he leaned in to kiss Sherlock gently on the lips, softly brushing his lips against Sherlock’s before opening his mouth for Sherlock’s tongue.

 

 

They pulled apart, Sherlock biting John’s lower lip as he moved away.  “Housekeeping will be by while we eat.  When we get back, it will be as good as new.”

 

 

John looked nervous.

 

 

“What?”

 

 

“Aren’t we playing a dangerous game here?”

 

 

Sherlock knew what he was saying, but he did not want his fun to be ruined by loathsome politics.

 

 

“Two men, traveling alone, loud noises coming from our suites, someone on this boat is bound to notice sooner or later.”

 

 

Sherlock put a finger to John’s lips. “I don’t want to think about the rules. I don’t want to think about the fact that it’s illegal for us to be together, or that we are going to have to spend the rest of our lives lying to people.”  He sighed.  “I just want to have some fun.” Sherlock looked down at John’s chest, unable to meet his eyes.

 

 

“We’ll be together though.”

 

 

Sherlock looked up.

 

 

John moved closer to him, a shy smile playing across his face.  “You and me against the rest of the world?”

 

 

Sherlock nodded.  “I’d like that.”  He grabbed a handful of John’s arse and gave him a flirty smile.  “But more than anything, I want to have you right now.”

 

 

John smiled, rolled onto his back, and opened his legs in invitation.  “Then have me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know if there is a book or movie you want me to do a crossover with and i will consider it

**Author's Note:**

> i started this fic over a years and a half ago so the writing style is very different to the one i have now. i'm posting the first few chapters as they are though i did edit them a bit. if you see a change in the writing style it is because there was a long break between when i wrote parts of this fic.
> 
> i'll add more tags as i need them


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